


Broken

by Cat_Jenkins



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-08 16:31:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 53,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3215945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cat_Jenkins/pseuds/Cat_Jenkins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A pivotal time from Hotch's adolescence. Ties into TLC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Broken

White fog.

It enveloped and softened and muted. It was everywhere.

Since the day he’d been told his father was dead…finally, terribly, regrettably, happily, horribly dead…white fog had bordered and bounded and muffled Aaron’s life. He had no idea how long that had been. It was as though his brain had split. Part of it saw things with crystal clarity, but they were disjointed. There was a disconnect between those points of reference and everything else.

He did homework and turned it in, watching his own movements as though he were the most boring movie ever made. Sometimes he’d eat, but there was no flavor. It didn’t matter because he’d stopped feeling hunger, so there was nothing of satisfaction in the process anyway. He didn’t know why he bothered, except that sometimes food would appear before him and it seemed he was expected to consume it. It was easier to just do it.

The only consistent brightness in this miasmic existence emanated from his baby brother Sean and the most wonderful girl in the world. Haley. If either one of them passed into his field of vision, Aaron felt…something, as opposed to the nothing that characterized the rest of his life. But even that was more like an abortive grinding of gears that didn’t quite mesh. It didn’t go anywhere. It just alerted him that maybe there was more to life than white fog.

Sometimes pain could break through and become one of the bright spots for a few minutes. The older boys, led by Randy Crenshaw, jeered at him until they realized their words had no effect. Randy hit him a few times, but even the toadies who followed the schoolyard bully felt ashamed of beating someone as silent and frail-looking as Hayseed Hotchner. After a while, it stopped.

Everything stopped.

All Aaron wanted was to be left alone.

So he wasn’t pleased when two large hands grasped his shoulders, pulled him close to a body that was larger and stronger than his own, and took control of him despite his struggles. He was transported to a room with harsh, fluorescent lighting and made to sit in a chair. The smell of the place triggered panic. Disinfectant. Chemicals. _Medical smells! Nothing good can come of them!_

But there was also a soothing voice that wouldn’t stop. It kept talking and talking, cajoling and calming. It was unusual, because most people avoided Aaron Hotchner. He made them uncomfortable with his haunted, hungry eyes that looked past them; either never seeming to focus or ratcheting down to a laser-like intensity that was equally unsettling. But most of the time it was as though the boy moved like a lost tourist in a sketchy neighborhood, or…or a ghost,…or a wraith.

Aaron was functional enough to get by. He walked that fine line that allowed everyone to ignore his damage. Except for this one man who wouldn’t stop talking at him.

“Aaron…Aaron look at me, Aaron. C’mon, son…focus.” Large hands chafed the boy’s upper arms, trying to warm a chill that went so much deeper than the physical. “Look at me, Aaron. It’s Dr. Swinburn. Do you remember me, son? About three years ago? Yes? No?”

Being touched, especially by men who were bigger, meant pain. The boy flinched at first, but the longer he had to get used to the idea that these hands weren’t going to hurt him, the more he relaxed, even allowing himself to lean back in his chair a bit.

“Your mother brought you in. Your little brother was with you. You were bruised and limping but had a big smile on your face. Turned out you took on your father, Aaron. Remember?” There was a flicker in the boy’s sad, dark eyes. “I found out that you drove him out of the house. A man twice your size. And it was a good thing, too.” The boy’s lips quivered. Dr. Swinburn leaned closer and the quiver ran through Aaron’s entire body. _He’s afraid? I don’t know. Maybe. But he’s hearing me. He’s feeling something._

“Aaron, I didn’t know how bad things had been for you. When I found out, I looked for you, but after your Dad left, you didn’t come to the ER again. I thought that meant everything was alright.” The doctor searched young Aaron’s face, hating himself for hoping to find understanding or forgiveness there. _You’re a selfish man, Swinburn, if you’re stepping in now because you feel guilty for not having done so sooner._

Swinburn chewed on his lip for a moment, reminding himself that he wasn’t the important one here. “The reason I’ve been looking for you again, is that I’m leaving. I’m never coming back to Bluefields, if I can help it.” He shook his head. “But I couldn’t go until I saw you one more time…until I was sure you were okay.”

The man swallowed, feeling his stomach threaded with regret and guilt. “But you’re not okay, Aaron…God, I hope I’m not too late.” He was sure he’d engaged the boy’s gaze. Even though it was gratifying to think he was being heard, it was disturbing to see such old eyes in such a young face. _Could I have prevented this? Was it already too late by the time I met him? Is it too late now?_

“It occurred to me that leaving Bluefields might do you a world of good, too, Aaron. There’s a place in Wisconsin that’s especially for young people who need a break, a respite, a fresh start…I could talk to your mother…?” The boy’s eyes had gone blank again. _But maybe that’s just a defensive maneuver. I’m holding him so he’s escaping in the only way he can…mentally._

Swinburn released the boney shoulders. Elbows on knees, he stayed close, watching for a reaction. “I’m sorry about your father.”

There it was; that flicker in the depths of eyes filled with private knowledge no one else shared. The doctor took a deep breath. _I’m sorry, Aaron, but I know what your trigger is…and I have to pull it…Forgive me…_

“You realize by ousting your father, you probably saved your little brother, don’t you? I wonder if he’ll ever know what you did for him…” He could see the rise and fall of the boy’s chest increase. “You did what you had to, son. And…” Swinburn leaned in closer. “…and you shouldn’t feel guilty. It’s okay to be glad he’s gone. It’s okay to be glad he’s dead. What your father was, is no reflection on you. Whatever he did, isn’t for you to be ashamed of.”

The cloud of vagueness surrounding Aaron vanished. It was one of those laser-point moments. The change startled Dr. Swinburn. He wasn’t ready for it when the boy lashed out, teeth bared.

“Don’t you talk about my father! You don’t have any right..!”

Swinburn caught the boy’s wrists, feeling the wiry power of angry adolescence surging through the slender body, knowing it must be humiliating to exert all one’s strength and be held in check by someone bigger, older. He hoped it didn’t equate in Aaron’s mind with how his father had treated him.

“Easy, son…Easy!” He was worried the kid would hurt himself…dislocate something…if he kept wrenching around in the older man’s grip.

“You don’t get it! No one does!” One last slim-muscled heave, and the aggressive burst ended as abruptly as a desert storm; fierce, but short-lived.

Large, tragic eyes stared at Swinburn, and he wondered if anyone had ever talked to the boy about his father. “You’re right. I don’t get it. So…tell me, Aaron. Explain.”

The boy wasn’t struggling anymore, but his breathing was labored; sharp gasps that only accentuated his trembling. His eyes filled.

“He was my _father_! All I ever wanted was to make him proud…All I ever _wanted_ …” The boy’s head dropped, a vain attempt to hide tears. “I…I loved him. All I ever _wanted_ …”

The doctor felt a burning in his own eyes. He enveloped the boy in what might have been the first paternal hug he’d ever known. It was like embracing a bundle of twine and twigs.

“It’s alright, son. It’s alright. Let it out…”

But when the storm had passed, the boy had retreated into the vague, lost look that had earned him the town’s discomfort and the name of ‘ghost.’

Dr. Swinburn couldn’t know what the boy was thinking…

_When I’m out of here, I won’t be ‘Aaron.’ I’ll tell everyone to call me ‘Hotch.’ It’s **his** name, too. I’ll use it and maybe he’ll know and he’ll be proud of me for it._

_I’m Hotch. Same as Dad._

 

xxxxxxx

 

The boy fell asleep in the middle of the exam.

Dr. Kenneth Morrison shook his head and stopped the soft, droning monologue he’d thought would soothe the newcomer. _Dear God, what kind of home did you come from, son, if you’re this depleted?_ He continued inspecting the lanky body, taking care to manipulate the limbs with the gentlest touch. If the boy was so exhausted he could fall asleep during the admission process, then Morrison wasn’t going to wake him.

His hand had been resting on the center of the boy’s chest, tapping to listen for lung congestion when the kid had gone out like a light. Morrison pressed and prodded. He ran fingers gifted with professional insight over fragile ribs and clavicles. Without the benefit of x-rays he could still tell that there had been breaks. The young bones had healed, but not always with the benefit of medical care. Some felt as though they’d healed without being set. _Maybe we can remedy some of these while he’s here…make sure they don’t plague him later in life. But for now, we’ll feed him and let him rest and hope some of his damage will drain away on its own._

The physical exam was gratuitous, but Morrison carried it out anyway. He was a stickler for protocol, especially since the Behavioral Center for Children and Adolescents was in its formative stages. The Center’s board of physicians, social workers, and concerned citizens were feeling their way into existence. They were being scrutinized by supporters and detractors. Methodology and qualifications could come under fire with the least provocation. The only surety was that there _was_ a need for such an institution. Every member of the Center’s staff was walking on eggshells, trying to make sure all their ‘i’s were dotted and all their ‘t’s crossed.

So the boy was examined even though he didn’t really need it.

When Morrison’s one-time colleague, Dr. Mathias Swinburn, had called from Bluefields, Virginia, to ask a special favor, he took advantage of the lack of a rigid set of criteria to measure those who would benefit from admittance to the Center.

“This kid is exactly the type you founded that place for, Ken, even if he doesn’t quite fit the norm.” Swinburn had been persuasive. “He’s _not_ a behavioral problem, but he needs a sanctuary away from this God-forsaken pit of a town. And I’m leaving myself. I can’t go without knowing he’s out, too.”

Sighing at the discovery of yet another child whose spirit might have been broken along with his body, Morrison flipped open the chart to enter his recommendations. His eye fell on the name. _Welcome to the Center, Aaron Hotchner. You’re not quite eighteen. You have bones like a bird. At the very least I hope you pad them up a little while you’re with us. And I promise no one will break any more of them. Not here. Welcome home, little sparrow._

Hotch murmured, rolling onto his side and drawing up his knees…assuming a protective position even in sleep. Morrison felt his throat tighten as he pressed a comforting hand against the young man’s bare waist. _Good luck, son. And may whoever’s responsible for your damage rot in hell._

 

 

 

 


	2. Admission

No one knew what to do with young Aaron Hotchner.

His problems were different from the others. They weren’t intrinsic. They weren’t congenital. He hadn’t been signed over to the Center’s care by relatives or officials who couldn’t handle his behavior anymore. Aaron was just a quiet, shy, thoughtful boy lost in his own world, but capable of emerging from it on occasion. And capable of moving through the daily rituals of life on his own, but with a baseline sadness about him that shown forth to anyone who cared to notice.

Too many eyes were on the Center’s birth and evolution to take a _laissez faire_ attitude toward its first year in operation. Criterion, requirements, forms, curricula…all were dredged up from the minds and experience of a staff devoted to repairing damage in one of the most vulnerable segments of society: those too young to have a voice in their own fate. Detractors and supporters alike were aware that the Center was breaking ground that would be used as the foundation for future institutions throughout the nation, and perhaps the world.

Just as he’d been given a physical exam when it hadn’t seemed necessary, Aaron was handed over to a psychiatrist for evaluation. The introverted adolescent trained his grave regard on the man conducting his interview. The boy was polite, but communicated as little as possible, keeping answers and observations trimmed to the least number of words required to satisfy his examiner. When all was said and done, the admissions board had a meeting to review Aaron’s results.

“He’s not a problem child. He doesn’t belong here.” Frowning, one of the board members closed his copy of the Hotchner boy’s file, demonstrating that this was his final verdict.

Dr. Morrison wouldn’t let that judgment stand. “He’ll _be_ a problem if he doesn’t get help now. Are you going to turn your back on a boy because he’s endangered, but not yet extinct? That’s the most idiotic, retroactive bastardization of our purpose I hope is never put forth in this organization ever again.”

“Calm down, Ken. We’re not saying the kid isn’t worth saving. We’re saying if we start bending the criteria even before we’ve really established ourselves, we’ll be floundering around in deep water without a lifejacket. We’re not here for _anyone_ who needs us. We’re here for a specific subset of children who can’t get what they need anywhere else. That doesn’t make us uncaring villains.”

Morrison didn’t want to admit that his heart had been touched by this particular youngster. The forbearance and patience and acceptance of the considerable pain he’d already experienced in a little less than eighteen years had shown out of such mournful eyes. He’d almost been glad that the boy had closed them and fallen asleep mid-exam, as troubling as that had been. The doctor’s mind clicked through the maze of red tape they were all in the process of building, looking for a way out.

“What if we keep him here without admitting him?”

A rustle of curiosity rippled around the group, giving Morrison hope and an opportunity to elaborate. “What if we let him stay as a paying guest? His family can afford it from what I’m told. He has one parent, and she was amenable to sending him here. What if we treat him the same as you would a student in boarding school who is paying tuition?” Looks were exchanged among the others. Morrison ran with his proposal. “Look, we won’t be relying on insurance money, so right there we gain a lot of leeway. We’re new. People are waiting to see how we do before sending us patients, so we’ve got plenty of room. It would work. I know it would!”

Murmured comments rose and fell; the tides of discussion that would decide Aaron’s fate.

The board member who’d originally objected shook his head, taking a deep breath. “If we do that, how do we plan his care? How do we justify allotting resources that are partially government funded?”

Morrison’s temper threatened to flare again. Mathias Swinburn wouldn’t have pushed this kid on the Center unless it was warranted. He needed to win this battle for an innocent child as well as for his one-time colleague. “His stay will be paid for by his mother. I’ll donate my time. Hell, I’ll take him home with me at night if that’s the only way you’ll let me keep him.”

A deep, regretful sigh issued from the Chief of Admissions before his voice rose above the ensuing argument. “Gentlemen, please!” When things had subsided to a low grumble, he addressed Dr. Morrison. “No need to go to extremes, Ken. The boy can stay here, but separate from the others…the ones with certifiable mental and emotional problems. He’ll pay his own way as far as room and board go. As for what his needs might be in terms of therapy or anything else you deem appropriate, _that_ we’ll leave to you…and anyone else who wants to contribute their time above and beyond their regular duties.”

He glanced at the name on his copy of the file. “Aaron Hotchner will be our paying guest and his treatment will be strictly voluntary. We’ll keep him unique and separate. If he’s not part of the regular program, no one can fault us for our charity. Now. Let’s move on.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Dr. Morrison felt oddly sad after the meeting.

Even though he’d emerged victorious, it made him wonder how many other children were out there who fell through the cracks because of society’s fixation on pigeonholing them. His tired mind ran over and over the problem of finding those who needed help. He explored the pros and cons, until he had to admit what he’d known all along.

_We fail our children. As a species, we fail them. All of us are damaged, but we miss the strongest ones. The boys and girls who are high-functioning survivors. And they’re the ones who, if they’d been rescued, might have turned out to be truly exceptional. But all their strength, their talents and gifts, are subsumed by the struggle for survival. God…what a waste._

He couldn’t leave without checking on young Aaron. Now that the boy was his personal project, he felt the need to know that he was tucked in for the night in this strange, new world into which he’d been dropped. _Without his consent. Maybe without even a proper explanation. I know he told Swinburn some very private things about his feelings for his father, but I don’t know what Swinburn might have told **him** about being sent away._

He headed toward the newly-constructed wing of vacant rooms, one of which had been assigned to the Hotchner boy.

Halfway there he encountered the night nurse, Brenda Franklin. Hers was a lonely job. Until the Center was more established, she was the only staffer onsite between 9p.m. and 6 a.m.. She was tasked with walking the dorm halls three or four times a night to ensure the residents were resting in peace and quiet. The remainder of her time was devoted to data entry.

Brenda was a placid person; it was hoped her calm demeanor would defuse any after-hours drama. When Morrison’s path intersected hers, he smiled. Just seeing the matronly figure padding stolidly along on her spongy-silent nurse’s shoes made him feel better.

She returned his smile, eyes crinkling in patterns that said this was a woman who laughed often. “Late night, Ken?”

“I just want to check on the Hotchner boy before I leave. Make sure he’s…well…” The doctor shrugged. “I don’t really know what I want to make sure of. I just need to see him once more. For me, I guess.”

Brenda sighed. “I know what you mean. Some of these children can break your heart. I’ll go with you.” They walked in silence until the nurse spoke again. “So what’s your patient’s story? Anything I should know?”

Morrison shook his head. “Not really. He’s not a patient, though. We’ve decided he’s a special guest. If anything, he might have PTSD. But he’s not like the others here. He shouldn’t be much trouble, but...”

“Shhhhh….listen!” Brenda interrupted, head snapping up like a hound scenting a hare.

Both of them heard the soft sounds of distress. Someone trying to muffle sobs that were too wracking to be hidden.

“Aaron...” Morrison covered the rest of the distance to the boy’s room at a run; the nurse a few paces behind, keeping up as best her portly figure could. At the door, the doctor slowed. He opened it quietly to avoid alarming its occupant.

Aaron’s thin figure was huddled against the bed’s headboard, trying to mute the sounds of his sorrow in a pillow clutched tight against his chest.

“Aaron? Aaron, what’s wrong? Does something hurt?” Morrison approached with cautious steps.

The nurse brushed past him, intent on reaching this soul in anguish. Taking a seat beside him, she scooped the boy, pillow and all, into a smothering, maternal hug. Her voice was soft, bordering on a croon, but still with a note of impatience for a medic’s tendency to center on physical ailments.

“Shhhh…Nothing’s wrong. And everything’s wrong. And this boy just misses his home and his Mama. Shhhh…Shhh….”

Morrison watched, feeling his own throat tighten in sympathy.

After a while he sat on Aaron’s other side, rubbing a comforting hand along the boy’s shoulders and spine. He wanted to establish an unthreatening, male presence.

Because Swinburn had told him some things. And he thought Aaron might be missing his father as much as his mother. Or maybe the _idea_ of a father, since his own had failed him so completely.

_Or maybe he just needs love and it doesn’t matter from where or from whom, so long as it begins to fill that aching, empty void inside him._

 


	3. Hotch

They got it wrong. Or mostly so.

Brenda Franklin thought the young man heaving with sobs was homesick. Ken Morrison thought it might be simple loneliness, although secretly he hoped Aaron’s grief was a venting process. Like a crack in the side of a volcano, he hoped it would let the emotional heat and violence escape, lessening the pressure and the likelihood of a full-on eruption. He also likened it to tectonic plates shifting, relieving pressure with a quake that, no matter how alarming, wasn’t ‘the big one.’

But they were wrong.

Aaron wasn’t sure what was going on. True, there were more breaks in the white fog surrounding him, but the bright spots were more because he felt threatened than because his damage was healing. Survival instinct made him surface and take notice, but the picture his dazed mind was assembling from the multitude of disparate parts and changing circumstances couldn’t form without looping back to his basic frame of reference: that he was worthless, useless, lacking in some fundamental way.

Sobbing his heart out, fueled by pain and the ferocious hormonal tides of adolescence, Aaron wasn’t missing home or mother. One was a place that concealed lies, hiding abuse behind velvet drapes and privilege. The other was a person stolen from him by his father’s anger, transformed into a drafty presence, wafting through too many rooms without any depth of purpose now that her husband was dead and what had become the foundation of her existence…fear…was gone. She was as blank as her eldest son.

Aaron sobbed because he’d been sent away. Even his mother didn’t want him. The phrase ‘a face only a mother could love’ played through his mind, taunting him that even that last bastion of theoretically dependable affection was denied him. Everything familiar was gone. He knew something was wrong with him. Vague memories of a time when the world had been crystal clear tormented him. But now? Now even the remaining bright spots of Sean and Haley had been taken from him.

He was bereft. Isolated. Terrified that images of his little brother and the girl he longed for would fade. The fog would win. In the end, there would be only muted, empty white and the knowledge that he deserved no better.

Still, a stubborn, little grain at the center of Aaron’s soul wouldn’t quit. It cast about for something, _any_ thing to refute his self-image and convince him there must be a reason for his existence.

It was found in the arms that held him and the low, female voice crooning comfort, assuring him that pain wouldn’t last forever. He had to trust it. He had a feeling he’d done so before, but his mind balked at following that hunch into the labyrinth of his memory.

For now, he let the fog keep his past.

 

xxxxxxx

 

The Hotchner boy cried himself to sleep.

After Brenda freed herself from the damp embrace, tucking blankets around the unconscious form, she studied Morrison’s face. “What happened to this child, Ken? Why is he here?”

The doctor continued to pat one of Aaron’s shoulders. “Abusive father. Indifferent, intimidated mother. No support system.” His lips pressed into a grim line. “Everyone failed this kid. His family. His town. His school. Everyone.”

“No…No, not everyone.” A softness was in the nurse’s voice. “If everyone had failed him, he wouldn’t be here. So…” She stroked a few strands of sweaty hair off the boy’s pale forehead. “…I guess that makes us his last chance, huh?”

“Kind of scary.”

“No more so than any of the others.”

“You don’t understand.” Morrison swallowed an unaccustomed lump of anxiety. “He’s not like the others we work with here. He’s _my_ responsibility. No one else’s. If I fail him, too…” He left his worst fear unfinished.

Sighing, Brenda stood, trying not to jostle the bed or its occupant too much. “You’re only alone in this if you want to be, Ken.” She tilted her head, giving the sleeping boy a last fond look. “If you feel like sharing, I’m on board, too.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Dr. Morrison found that there were a number of co-workers willing to donate time and a piece of their hearts to the fragile teen with the haunted eyes.

The doctor opted to keep Aaron away from the troubled residents of the Center at first. He wanted the boy to find his own balance. Eventually, though, socialization would have to be a part of his recovery.

“Whoever hurt that kid, I’d like to meet him some night in a dark alley.” The comment took Morrison off guard, coming from the man who’d originally opposed hosting Aaron at the Center.

Ken grinned. “It’d be kind of freaky if that happened. The guy was his father. He’s dead.”

“Couldn’t happen to a more deserving guy. But his influence lives on in his son. In all the wrong ways.”

“Got that right.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Morrison found that updates on young Aaron’s progress were requested at every staff meeting. Didn’t matter that he wasn’t officially a patient at the Center. The passion that had pushed these people to throw their lot in with an institution that catered to endangered youth, was fresh and unjaded. They hungered for success stories. They longed for this strange boy’s recovery with every fiber of their beings.

Morrison had to smile. _Aaron, you’ll never believe how much care you inspire._

It was an accurate assessment. The Hotchner boy spoke little and looked lost. At first he kept to his room, uncertain of what he was allowed to do or where he should go. The intention had been to let him rest without imposing the pressure of expectations on him. But when Ken began to think Aaron was hiding rather than recovering, he searched for ways to pry him out of his seclusion.

One opportunity presented itself early on.

Morrison didn’t know if it was Aaron’s particular genetics or if it was because he was finally being given the chance to eat his fill, but the boy shot up like a cornstalk. And with wrists and ankles protruding from his clothes, he looked as though a cornfield was where he belonged. So, the doctor earmarked a Saturday to take his young charge shopping. He was grateful when Brenda volunteered to go along, remarking that she’d clothed her own children and knew how to handle growing boys.

 “At this age they need everything. Underwear, jeans, t-shirts, shoes. And they’ll outgrow them again in a few months.” She surveyed Aaron as he ate his breakfast. “Judging by the size of his feet, he’ll have another spurt before he’s done. The trick to shopping with boys, though…” She turned experienced eyes on Morrison. “…is to realize most of them hate to do it. And they’ll roll their eyes at your antiquated sense of style, so force them into the store and then let them choose something on their own. Usually, a compromise can be reached.”

The doctor watched young Aaron. The child ate because his body demanded it, but he still cast wary looks over each shoulder as he did. It reminded Morrison of a feral dog on the lookout for attackers. His stomach clenched in sympathy. “Maybe we can let him look around and see if there’s something that _does_ interest him…if clothes don’t.”

The nurse warmed to the idea. “He needs a haircut. Maybe we can work that in. And maybe a movie and something to eat that he doesn’t get here? Boys l-o-o-v-e pizza…”

“Gee…ya think?” Morrison cast an ironic, but mischievous eye on his co-worker.

But it sounded like fun. And he was sure Aaron would benefit from having some attention showered on him.

 

xxxxxxx

 

The weekend foray into Wisconsin mall territory was enlightening.

Despite his increasing height, Aaron still looked insubstantial, his long limbs making him coltish and awkward. He stayed close to his escort, especially Brenda, as he explored. Morrison noted his behavior with interest.

The nurse’s prediction about clothes shopping for a teenage male proved true. Aaron didn’t care about fashion, but neither was he rebellious. He was very polite and a little lost, murmuring ‘thank you’ at each purchase and looking uncomfortable. He kept his eyes down for the most part, as though he didn’t want to attract attention.

Walking the mall promenade, Aaron didn’t cower, but he braced himself when groups of boys his own age surged past, shooting him challenging looks. Morrison was baffled at first. As far as he could tell, Aaron wasn’t doing anything to incur anyone’s wrath or even special notice. When they took a lunch break, settling their bags of purchases around a pizza parlor table, Aaron went to the restroom, giving his escorts a chance to discuss the day so far.

“What’s with the kids glaring at him every time they pass us? Is he some sort of magnet, inviting bullies to come after him?” Morrison shook his head, disgusted with what he saw as unwarranted hostility. Brenda’s laugh brought him up short.

“You’re kidding, right?” She bit her lip, but couldn’t keep a straight face.

“What?” He glanced over his shoulder. “If you know something I don’t, tell me before Aaron gets back.”

Brenda’s sigh was long-suffering. “The girls are watching him. They’re giggling and trying to catch his eye. Our little Aaron might not be noticing, but other boys his age certainly are.” Smiling, she began perusing the menu. “I’d have thought a man who works with children would recognize the mating rituals of the suburban teen. You disappoint me.”

With a puzzled frown, Morrison watched as Aaron emerged from the men’s room and traversed the short distance to their table. A bevy of adolescent girls across the room tracked his progress, whispering and giggling. Their interest could have been taken for ridicule except that, once alerted, the doctor noticed small gestures intended to showcase feminine attributes. Hair was flipped. Lips were licked and pursed. Postures straightened as breasts-in-progress were thrown out. Their target failed to respond, but the girls’ eyes still followed this newcomer in their midst.

Aaron was almost home free when a boy who’d been sitting with a group close to the girls’ table, stood up and stepped in front of him. “Haven’t seen you around here before. Where you from?”

The two were almost a match in height, but the challenger was pulling himself up, stretching to impress the new kid. Aaron stood still, downcast eyes rising to fix mid-level on the chest blocking his way.

“Did’n you hear me? Who are you?” Emboldened by Aaron’s lack of response, the boy pushed one of his shoulders; a mild test, but one that might lead to something more aggressive.

“Hey!” Morrison stood up, striding to Aaron’s side. “Knock it off!”

Aaron’s accoster hadn’t counted on adult interference. Aware of the feminine audience, he shrugged, backing away. “Jeeeez…no big woof, man.” As he sauntered past the girls, returning to his own table, he rolled his eyes, inviting their admiration. “Guess his old man needs to speak for him…” The muttered jibe carried over the ambient noise.

Aaron stiffened, turning, training his laser-point glare on his jeering adversary, he growled. “He’s not my old man. He’s a doctor. For crazy people. Really...totally...crazy... Maybe he just saved your life.”

Aaron took great satisfaction in how his opponent’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. Everyone in the area had heard about the new institution that dealt with the troubled. The unpredictable. The possibly _dangerous_? The instigator’s table emptied, leaving half-finished food behind.

Ushered to his seat by the doctor, Aaron saw the frown on the man’s face. He pulled into himself, trying to escape critical notice he’d come to equate with physical punishment. He flinched when Morrison ran a hand down his arm.

“Aaron? Are you okay?...Aaron?”

“ I‘m okay…I‘m okay…I‘m okay.”

“Aaron? You sure?”

Very slowly, the boy’s depthless, dark eyes tracked up. “Yeah. And I‘m Hotch. Call me Hotch.”

Ken and Brenda exchanged looks. This was more interaction in a few minutes than the boy had shown over the course of weeks. And he’d stood up for himself using intelligence and intimidation rather than violence. _Good for you, kid…but we still have a long, long way to go._

The doctor nodded, settling back in his chair. “Okay, then. So, Hotch…what do you want on your pizza?”

 


	4. Mall Rats

The adults watched in fascinated amazement tinged with admiration…and maybe a little horror… as Hotch consumed an entire, large pizza sporting eleven toppings, on his own.

Brenda nudged her colleague. “Wanna bet he’ll be hungry again in a couple of hours?”

Morrison grunted. “Wanna bet he’ll need another new wardrobe in a couple of months?”

The nurse had an indulgent smile, but the doctor was frowning. He spoke _sotto voce._ “He doesn’t eat like that at the Center. I wonder why.”

Brenda shrugged. “Ask him.”

“I will. When the time is right, though. Not here. Don’t want him to feel he’s under observation.”

Overall, they enjoyed the sight of this young man finally seeming to take notice of some of his surroundings without looking tragic. There was still a sadness about him, but an edge of curiosity had crept in. The doctor decided to fan that spark in hopes it would flicker higher. He waited until Aaron… _Hotch_ …he reminded himself, finally sat back in his chair, pizza demolished, with a contented sigh.

“Did you get enough to eat, son?”

Hotch blinked, his attention drawn out of the semi-fog and to the man across the table. He nodded and mumbled his gratitude. He continued watching the doctor, a wary look in his eyes. Without knowing more about why he was at the Center, or whether he’d ever leave, he was living from moment to moment. It was safer than making plans. Or having hopes. Or dreams. _Maybe this is my home now._

Morrison held the boy’s gaze, studying him, but only able to conclude that Hotch was a more intricate puzzle than anyone suspected. After a moment he stood and began gathering the bags filled with things a growing teen needed. He glanced at Hotch.

“Let’s put these in the car and then walk around for a while, okay?”

“Sounds good.” Brenda rose from her chair. Hotch nodded and followed suit.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Wandering through the mall at their leisure, Morrison was careful to let Hotch lead the way.

When the boy’s steps slowed before the windows of a Barnes & Noble, he took the hint.

“Why don’t we take a look in here? I could use some new reading material myself.”

The adults kept an eye on Hotch as he made a slow and steady search of nearly every aisle. But the one that finally claimed him was the hobby section. Coin collecting. There was nothing vague about the intensity with which he drank in photos of silver dollars and buffalo-head nickels. After a while he moved on. When he stopped at a selection of volumes on abnormal psychology, it was hard to tell if he was interested in the subject, or disturbed by it. It almost seemed as though he forced himself to page through some of them.

Morrison brought one of the largest tomes from the selection Hotch had sampled regarding coins to the cash register, but he decided to pass on the topic of psychology. He couldn’t tell if it sparked the boy’s interest or dread. It was Brenda who suggested a better way.

“Why don’t you get him a library card? It’s only a mile or so from the Center. Easy enough to walk.”

The doctor nodded. “And it would be a baby step back into the regular, workaday world. Yeah…good idea. Thanks, Brenda.” Ken wasn’t a father. But he was learning to shed some of his years and recall his own adolescence. “Maybe he’d like a bike when he’s more comfortable. He might even make some friends if he has a chance to find some interests outside the Center.”

Experienced mother that she was, the nurse gave her colleague a disparaging glance. “He needs to learn to drive, Ken. Most boys his age do. And he needs the other things a father usually does for his son.”

The doctor dredged up memories of his own father. It seemed so long ago. The man’s influence was so ingrained it was difficult to separate it out and see the father-to-son link that Hotch was missing.  _Well, not really missing...his father's touch is all over the kid. Unfortunately._

In his work, Morrison was more focused on the abnormalities of his patients, but the Hotchner boy was different. He was neglected and abused, not hostile, not destructive. _I need to teach him to drive…and how to shave…and I guess I need to know if he’s up to speed on the way to treat girls…and…_ He gave a beleaguered sigh. _And I guess I’ll have to find out if he knows about dating rituals and sex._ It was hard to believe that any American teen didn’t know the basics, but he’d rather risk embarrassing the boy than make assumptions that would leave Hotch with blanks and unanswered, awkward questions with no one to ask.

Both of Aaron’s parents had failed him. Ken resigned himself to picking up the slack.

After the book store, Hotch and Morrison went for haircuts. Both doctor and nurse noticed Aaron’s retreat into stoic silence as a tall, solidly built man trimmed the raven-dark locks and made jokes. They couldn’t know that Hotchner, Sr. had, on occasion, held scissors to his son’s throat, threatening to slice him ear to ear if he didn’t keep still and quiet. As little Aaron squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to tremble too much, his father had laughed and joked, too.

Hotch left the hair salon looking pale, but began to recover when his attention was caught by the noise and color of an arcade. He stopped a few yards away from the entrance, listening to the cheers and shrieks of adolescent voices emanating from deep within the dim interior along with electronic pings and pops accompanied by flashes of light.

Laughing, Brenda shook her head. “You guys go ahead if you want, but I’m staying out here.” She looked around, spotting a bench a few yards away. “Give me the bag, Ken. I’ll look at your books while you…what?...Save the universe? Fight off bad guys?” Her wry expression said that arcades weren’t meant for someone of her ripe years and modest ambitions when it came to protecting the planet.

“Something like that.” Morrison handed the Barnes & Noble purchases to her, mind running through the names of games he’d never played, but knew from his patients' enthusiastic descriptions. _Zork, Asteroids, Space Invaders…_ “It’s a lot of hand/eye coordination, but…yeah…I guess we _will_ be saving the world from evil.” He gave Brenda an arch look. “And we’ll _win_ , too.”

In the arcade, Hotch drifted among his peers, oblivious to the glances he garnered from what were probably the establishment’s Saturday regulars. When he found a vacant game of Space Invaders and settled in to play, Morrison sought an unobtrusive corner from which to watch.

Hotch’s concentration was phenomenal. So was his marksmanship. He accumulated an audience, but seemed unaware of them; his focus ratcheted down to the obliteration of aliens. When the game finally ended, he was startled by cheers and friendly, jostling slaps on his back.

Hotch backed away from his admirers, seeking Dr. Morrison, finding him with a serious, speculative expression as he observed this child full of surprises. _More like hidden talents. I wonder what else is tucked away behind that defensive façade…?_

“Had enough?”

Hotch nodded, uncomfortable with the onlookers who were still expressing their appreciation of his gaming skills. Morrison saw something vulnerable in the boy’s bowed head and downcast eyes. Without thinking, he put an arm around Hotch’s shoulders, pulling him closer. When he felt Aaron stiffen, he tightened his embrace, giving what he hoped was a comforting rub to the boney shoulder in his grip.

“Let’s go home.” He didn’t want to overwhelm Hotch on his first foray into the local surroundings. And he didn’t want to push the boy faster than he could handle. Still, something in the doctor made him want to shake Aaron and _make_ him understand that he had all the tools for a normal, happy life. That he could have friends and eventually lovers and could pursue his interests with a mind that had tested as near genius. _And you’ve got skills above and beyond intelligence…abilities that you could develop if you chose. God, kid, you’ve got the possibility of an incredible life ahead of you._

But for now, Morrison would have settled for a smile.

He’d yet to see a big, wide, genuine grin grace this young man’s face. He’d thought the barber who’d cut Hotch’s hair would have elicited one with his nonstop patter, but the boy’s eyes had taken on that distant look that meant he was divorcing himself from his surroundings.

_I need to talk to him more. By now he knows he’s safe here and he’ll be cared for when it comes to food and shelter. But his **emotional** safety is still an issue. And might remain one for the rest of his life._

_We need to talk more._

The doctor was encouraged when the shoulders encased in his one-armed hug relaxed a little. He cinched them tighter; a brief, firm squeeze.

“C’mon, Hotch. Let’s go home.”


	5. Treasure

Despite Ken’s intentions, Hotch _was_ overwhelmed.

He stood in his room and surveyed the embarrassment of riches spilling forth from bags and boxes. Things he would never ask for. Things he could survive without. Things that Dr. Morrison and Mrs. Franklin had taken the time to select for him with care, commenting on color and cut and style. No one had ever given thought to his appearance that he could remember. His mother had left clothes for him periodically, but she’d never dared shower this kind of attention on him. She kept her eldest son out of the limelight so he’d be less visible to his father. Her only viable defense for him had boiled down to keeping him in a drab and cheerless, but safer, place.

It was an entirely different story with the doctor and nurse. Hotch didn’t know why he felt like crying at this avalanche of kindness. It should make him happy.

He decided his lopsided feelings were another sign of the bone-deep flaw that must have sent him here in the first place.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Quite a day we had. Got a lot done.” Morrison looked over their purchases with a satisfied air. “How’re you feeling, Hotch?”

The boy swallowed. “I…uh…I…” He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Well…” Brenda reached into a bag, extracting a fleece hoodie and a pair of sweat pants. “…I’ll start putting some of these things away, but you’ll need to finish on your own, Aaron.” Her smile was tired. “I work the night shift so weekends throw me off my timing a little. This old lady needs to head on home soon.”

“I…I can do it. You don’t need to.” Hotch was keenly aware of the sacrifice these two had made on his behalf. He chewed on his lip for a moment. “Thanks. For everything….And you’re not old.” This last was almost a whisper, but it made Brenda smile. It showed the boy had social skills buried beneath the surface. And a kind heart, too.

She glanced at Morrison, hoping he’d caught the import of the shy courtesy. He returned a meaningful look which was her cue to leave the men alone. “Maybe I _will_ let you handle this on your own. Then you’ll know where everything is. Won’t have to search for stuff.” Standing before Hotch, she caressed one lean cheek with her palm. “And you’re welcome, dear.” To the boy’s surprise, she brushed a kiss across his forehead. “Sleep well.” She nodded at the doctor as she passed him. “Good night, Ken. See you Monday.”

“Night, Brenda.” The doctor waited until she’d left, closing the door behind her with a soft click. He turned his regard to the boy watching him with an equally grave stare. He cast about for the Barnes & Noble bag. Hotch hadn’t seen him buy the book on coin collecting. Now he pulled the weighty tome from among the purchases he’d made for himself, extending it toward the teen. “Thought you might like this.”

Hotch accepted the gift with disbelieving hands. As unexpectedly kind as the day had been, he could understand the need to buy clothes and to have his hair cut. He had a feeling the Center wanted its inmates to be presentable, not some cartoonish, ragged version of the mentally ill. But the book…that was the result of someone taking an interest in him beyond physical appearance. That was someone trying to look deeper. _But that’s their job, isn’t it? To look inside and see how broken you are?_ With an effort he pulled out of his own thoughts. The doctor was speaking and he was missing about what.

“…until I get you a library card and show you around the town a little more, it might tide you over.”

“Library card?”

“Well, yeah. So you can read whatever you want.” Morrison smiled. “It’ll also give you someplace to go when you get sick of hanging around here. _And_ …” He raised one brow. “…you’ll need resources for homework. Don’t think your time here is a vacation from school. I haven’t arranged a tutor for you yet because you needed some time to adjust…some time to rest. But I don’t want you falling behind. Next year you’ll need to apply to colleges, if that’s the route you want to take, so I won’t let your education slide, Aaron…uh…Hotch.”

Hotch felt as though the air had been let out of him. Blinking, he plopped onto the bed, staring at the book he was holding, but not really seeing it.

Morrison frowned, “Son? Are you okay? Hotch?”

“I don’t know. I…” Eyes that were starved for so much…love, acceptance, reassurance…fixed on the doctor’s. “ _Am_ I okay? Am I?” There was pathos and pleading in the boy’s tone.

Ken had the basic failing of many in the medical profession: his compassion for his patients sprang from the idea of them, rather than first-hand experience of their suffering. He couldn’t know that Hotch’s question was coming from a place where belief in his own damage went deep. The doctor’s answer referred to a shallower level. He didn’t know the boy considered himself broken.

“Well, no. You’re not okay. I guess you could say you need time to get your balance. It was thought being here would help.”

It still sounded to Hotch as though he’d been committed. Sent away out of necessity for the good of others around him as much as for his own. His self-esteem was so low that action taken on his behalf, purely in consideration of his own welfare, didn’t occur to him.

The puzzled, stunned expression on the youngster’s face troubled Morrison, but he ascribed it to the full day in a new environment with relatively new acquaintances. Perfectly understandable, but not where he wanted Hotch’s mind to linger right before going to sleep. He changed the subject, nodding at the book resting on the boy’s knees.

“So you’re interested in coins?” Hotch’s nod was a little dazed. He was still dealing with the conflicting concepts of readying himself for college application, and living in an institution. “What about them appeals to you? Son?”

“Huh?”

Morrison spoke more slowly, studying this child’s baffled features. “Why do you like coins?”

Hotch looked back down at the book’s cover illustration: a tumbled mass of silver and copper and gold. He ran a hand over it. His words put the doctor in mind of a shameful admission, rather than a simple explanation. “‘Cause they can look like nothing, but still be, you know, _valuable_. Like if the right person finds them and knows what to look for, they can be worth something. Not just all tarnished and dirty.” Hotch’s lips did a brief downward quirk, almost like a prelude to crying. “Not just worthless. Not just useless. You know?”

For once, Dr. Morrison did. He knew exactly what this child with the aching soul meant.

Stepping closer, he lifted Hotch’s chin until their eyes met. “Yes, I do know. Let me tell you something about true treasure, young Aaron. The most valuable finds have been at the bottom of the sea. Covered with barnacles. Tarnished black. Unrecognizable. And yet…the most incredible, life-changing treasure of all.” Silence ruled for several beats. Ken kept hold of the chin that would likely sport its first stubble in a few months. “Thing is, the treasure’s value never changed. Even when no one could see it, it was still the most amazing find. What had to change was the eyes looking for it…not the treasure itself. The treasure was _always_ valuable. Understand?”

Hotch gave a slow nod that disengaged his chin from the older man’s grasp. Morrison resisted the urge to ruffle the newly-shorn hair that looked inky black in the fading light. He sighed. There was a lot of work ahead of him if he wanted to unearth the treasure buried inside this boy.

“Let’s go down to the kitchen and get you something to eat. That pizza’s probably worn off by now.”

Again, Hotch nodded.

Morrison’s crooked smile was partly because he’d kept the teen engaged and communicative for this long without losing him to the misty look that came over him so often, and partly because of the awe-inspiring, seemingly insatiable appetite that went with Hotch’s age and growth spurts and maturing process. The boy had eaten like a bird…a scared bird…when he’d first arrived. Now he was comfortable enough to give in to his body’s demands

Then, shrugging, the doctor surrendered to the urge and roughed the dark hair, which released its own buried treasure: cowlicks galore.

“You’re a good boy, Aaron…I mean Hotch. A _very_ good boy.”

Those words meant more to the teenager than anything else he’d heard all day…the applause at the arcade…the pithy advice and observations. More than all of them put together. He stored them away to take out and replay later when he was alone. He’d inspect them and marvel at them for a long, long time.

Like treasure.


	6. Family Ties

A few days later, Brenda Franklin was padding through her rounds on thick, crepe soles.

The Center was enjoying a peaceful night. The nurse liked walking through the quiet, imagining all the children, so troubled during the day, now tucked beneath quilts, dreaming.…until she reached Hotch’s door.

It wasn’t the sobbing she and Morrison had heard when the boy first arrived. It was softer, less ragged. Still heart-wrenching to hear. Still the outpouring of too much pain for someone so young.

The nurse tapped and called in a soft voice. “Hotch? Aaron? Are you alright?”

No answer.

The crying continued. Brenda envisioned the boy so sure of his privacy at this late hour that he’d let his guard down and allowed himself total immersion in whatever sorrows attended his brief life. _And I’m sure there’s no shortage of those, poor baby._ She knocked again. “May I come in? Aaron?”

A sound that fell between a choke and a snort told her she’d been heard. Hotch was trying to swallow his emotional fallout, gulping back the anguish instead of giving it free rein. Hiding.

“Aaron?” A firmer, but still gentle tone entered Brenda’s voice. “I’m coming in.”

The intensity of the grief might be different, but the scene that greeted her was dismally familiar. Hotch huddled against the headboard, knees drawn up to his thin chest, arms wrapped around a pillow that was clutched either for comfort or as a muffling device. Brenda wasn’t sure. But it didn’t really matter.

She spared him the indignity of treating him like a child, even though her first impulse was to gather him into a maternal hug and rock him until whatever pained him fled into the night. She wanted him to understand that crying didn’t mean he was behaving childishly. By restraining herself, by taking a seat beside him and comforting him with words rather than her arms, she hoped to send the message that tears were signs of emotional depth, rather than weakness. That they were acceptable, rather than shameful. She didn’t consider him a baby for shedding them.

It was hard. She had to keep reminding herself that this boy was teetering on the brink of adulthood, despite his slight build and heartbreakingly lost look. _He just needs time to heal. He’ll be fine._ But the nurse wasn’t sure if she believed it. She sensed an unplumbed reservoir in Hotch. He protected it fiercely. It was almost as though he were embracing his right to be miserable.

Brenda sighed. _But it’s all he’s known. Give him time to learn there’s more to life and he’ll embrace something else._

“Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry.” Hotch stiffened his spine, struggling to look strong and independent. Or at least less rumpled and pathetic.

The nurse frowned. “What are you sorry for?”

Hotch blinked salt-reddened eyes at her. No one had ever asked him before. Apologizing was something he’d grown used to doing. It was a tactic that had been intended to make his father stop whatever punishment was in progress. It had rarely worked. Over time it had become an expression of regret for his own existence. Unable to find any other reason, Aaron had grown to believe that he was the root cause of all the bad things that happened to him…at home with his family…at school with bullies…. It was all his fault for being somehow deficient. It just _was_. There was no way to explain to this kind woman. It was like trying to explain why the sky was blue. It just _was_.

So Hotch was sorry, sorry, sorry. He just _was_.

But Brenda’s calm, placid expression was waiting for an answer. When it became clear that none would be forthcoming, she tried to work toward it from a different angle. “Why were you crying, Aaron?”

As much as she knew the boy preferred to be called ‘Hotch,’ Brenda couldn’t reconcile a name that put her in mind of a fierce-eyed bird-of-prey with this sparrow-boned youngster. It was a name to be grown into, but not one that applied at the moment. “Aaron…dear…won’t you tell me what’s wrong?” Her smile was touched with wistful sadness. “I may not look it, but I’m pretty good at finding ways to make things better. Or so I’ve been told. I’d hate to think I’ve lost my touch…”

Hotch snuffled, wiping at his nose. He debated pretending that he’d been yawning and that’s why his eyes were streaming. But the sincere look the nurse was giving him, so hopeful of being able to help, reached into his aching loneliness and the words spilled out of their own volition. “My brother…my little brother…” To Hotch’s chagrin, he couldn’t help a gasping sob, a surprised reaction at his own willingness to name a piece of his pain.

Brenda lowered her chin, peering at this child trying so hard to control himself, equating lack of emotion with manliness. “You miss your little brother? Is that it?”

All Hotch could do was nod. There was more to it, but he didn’t want to say he was worried about how his mother was taking care of her youngest child; whether she was drifting deeper into the hazy fantasies that were her coping mechanism for how her life had turned out. And he didn’t want to let another involuntary sob out. So he kept his mouth shut.

“I see.” Brenda looked down, thinking. She sat straighter and glanced around the room, noting its contents. A frown slipped across her forehead. _Good God, we’ve done it again! And here of all places! Let a child slip between the cracks even here where cracks aren’t supposed to exist. All the others have visitors from their families; people who touch bases with them and supply little things like family photos or mementos. This child has none of that. We can be such idiots!_

She gave up trying to resist hugging Hotch. It was as much for her own comfort as for his. Snugging her arms around him, she pulled him off balance, forcing him to accept being held while she explained. “Aaron, I’m the one who needs to say I’m sorry. We all are. Tomorrow I’ll see about having a phone put in here so you can call home whenever you want. You can talk to your mother and your little brother. And maybe you can ask them to send you some pictures so you can have them around.”

Her sigh was deep, filled with regret. “I’m so sorry. It’s just that you’re special. Not like the regular patients we get here. So you have to promise me something, Aaron.” She pulled back enough to engage Hotch’s eyes. She’d been about to ask him to promise he’d tell them what he needed. But something in his look was so empty, she didn’t think he’d be proactive on his own behalf. Yet, she sensed he’d go to great lengths to help others. _Can’t put my finger on it…just something about him…something…something…trustworthy! That’s it. Make it his duty and he’ll follow through, but it has to be for the greater good. He can’t allot himself that much importance. Not yet. Maybe not ever._

So Brenda reconnoitered and put a different slant on what she was asking. “I want you to promise that when you see a way we can improve things around here, you’ll tell us. This Center is going through growing pains, too. Your perspective on things that are lacking would go a long way to making it successful faster. And you’re smart, Aaron. You’ll see what’s needed where others might not. So promise me you’ll speak up?”

Hotch pulled himself free of her embrace. Spine pressed against the headboard, he nodded. “Okay.”

Brenda noted that he’d eased up on gripping the pillow as though it were a flotation device and he a drowning man. It was a hopeful sign. She looked at the rest of him. “Why aren’t you wearing the pajamas we bought you? Don’t you like them?”

Hotch pulled at the hem of the t-shirt that hung from his too-sharp shoulders. He shrugged, avoiding eye contact in favor of gazing at the sweat pants that completed his ensemble. “I like this better.” There was no way he was going to tell anyone that pajamas made him feel vulnerable. He’d learned to be ready to roll out of bed and hit the floor running whenever Dad came into his room in search of a punching bag.

Brenda read the boy’s body language and didn’t press him. It was true that at Hotch’s age everything was bigger and more dramatic and all-consuming than it would be in a few years when a more adult perspective had a chance to assert itself. Things that were do-or-die, life-or-death in adolescent world would look different in his 20s. For now, there was an uneasy subtext running through the teen. It wasn’t hard for the nurse to divine. There’d been no mention of sexual abuse in Hotch’s background, but he clearly needed the armor of activewear rather than the ease of sleepwear.

She patted his knee. “Well, you look very handsome no matter what you put on.” He ducked his head. Brenda had noticed that he didn’t take compliments well. _Leave it alone. Take it one step at a time._ She smiled. “So. We’ll get you in touch with your family tomorrow, and having a phone in here will give you privacy.” Reaching out, she tucked a lock of dark hair behind one of Hotch’s ears. “And again…I’m sorry we didn’t think of that earlier.”

The boy lifted one shoulder and let it fall back down; a gesture that indicated his indifference to assigning blame.

Brenda stood. “Is there anything else you need…Hotch? Right now? Or anything else we can help with?” He shook his head, eyes downcast. The nurse moved to leave, giving the room another critical glance. “Yes…I think this place will look much better with some pictures from home.” She smiled from the doorway. “Goodnight, dear. Try to go to sleep.”

Hotch nodded, watching her leave. After she’d closed his door, he looked around the room, trying to see it through someone else’s eyes. It was a little bare. Some snapshots of Sean and Mom… _and wouldn’t it be great if I had one of Haley, but…that’ll never happen…_ would be good, if he could get them.

He flopped back on the bed and sighed. He was grateful for the suggestion. A photo of Sean might help him sleep better. It might fade the image of his father that violence had burned into his brain. Hotchner, Sr. surfaced with unsettling frequency.

 _And she said I was different from the other kids here._ Hotch grimaced. _I don’t even fit in among the misfits. Great._

With a sigh that bordered on a groan, he curled onto his side, closed his eyes and tried to think…of nothing.

 

xxxxxxx

 

The next few days saw some changes for Hotch.

A phone was installed in his room. A tutor was engaged and began some preliminary placement testing to evaluate this new student’s education level. Then, one day Hotch returned to his room after lunch and saw Dr. Morrison standing over a workman who was kneeling in a sprinkling of sawdust, doing something to the door knob.

Hotch froze, staring. A lock was being installed. His stomach dropped. Shreds of conversation played through his mind… _“You’re different from the others…”… “You’re special…”_ His throat closed. His breathing roughened with anxiety. _They’re going to lock me in? I’m that bad? Oh, God…what’s wrong with me?!?_

The sound of a drill spurted a few times. The handyman twisted the knob, nodded to himself in satisfaction and grunted as he got to his feet. “That oughta do ‘er, Doc.” He brushed his hands together in the time-honored gesture of completion. “Here’s yer keys.”

Morrison extended his hand, palm up. “Two, right? One for housekeeping and one for…” Glancing up, he saw the Hotch-statue at the corner. “Ah! Here he is.” The doctor motioned for Aaron to come closer. “Here ya go, son. A key to your room. So you can feel a little more like it’s your apartment or a dorm room instead of a clinic, you know?” Grinning, he placed a newly-minted key into Hotch’s hand.

The grin faded at the boy’s confused stare. “Son? What’s wrong?”

“I…I thought you were going to lock me in.”

“Why would I do that?”

The workman had tidied away his tools. Hotch waited until he walked away, nodding at them as he passed. “Because this _is_ a clinic. It’s for…you know…kids who need to be kept…you know… _separate_.”

Morrison searched the young face looking up at him in such earnest distress. “Aaron, I told you…you’re a special case. You’re not like the others here. They don’t get their own phones or keys to their rooms or tutors or the right to leave the campus to go into town on their own, if they choose. I told you…you’re different. Special.”

“You also said there _is_ something wrong with me. So what’s the difference?”

The Center was new ground. It’s denizens were a new breed. And this precocious boy was in a class all his own. Morrison’s eyes lit up, thinking he’d hit on a useful analogy to ease Hotch’s worries.

“You _do_ need our help, Aaron. But think of it this way: for the others, this place is a hospital of sorts. For you, it’s more of a spa…or a boarding school.”

Hotch needed time to process this. He didn’t jump into arguments or banter words about with the shallow facility of some. He wanted to inspect the doctor’s statement from different angles. Hotch’s was a very deliberate, painstaking way of analyzing clues. He nodded, eyes shifting away as his thoughts coalesced around a single point, letting the white fog surround him once again.

Morrison leaned down, the better to see the boy’s furrowed brow and downcast eyes. “Does that make it clearer? Hotch? Aaron?”

But Hotch’s mind was somewhere else, comparing words like ‘spa’ and ‘sanatorium’ and ‘asylum.’

Mumbling a distracted thank you, he went into his room and closed the door.

After a moment, Ken heard the distinctive sound of a lock. Pocketing the duplicate key, he walked away, lost in a fog of his own as he wondered if it was time to begin walking young Aaron through the years of abuse he’d suffered.

And if that would free the boy, or open his wounds even wider.

And, if opened wider, would Hotch fall into the resulting crevasse and never hit bottom.

Morrison sighed. _To be condemned to a lifetime of free-fall through one’s own damage. That would be the very definition of Hell._


	7. Phoning Home

“Hello? Mom? It’s me…Aaron. It’s Aaron.”

The phone had been installed and connected for several days, but this was the first time Hotch had made use of it. He’d watched the thing crouch on his desk. It alternated between beckoning and mocking him. It loomed large and then diminished to a sooty speck. The entire world of his nightmares was waiting just beyond the black, plastic receiver. But so was the only illusion of love he’d ever known. So one evening, Hotch locked his door and called his Mom.

“Mom? Are you there?”

“Aaron! Oh, darling…it’s so good to hear from you!” The lilt in Mrs. Hotchner’s voice was that of a carefree woman who had never known a moment’s hardship. It set off alarms on a deep level inside her oldest son. “So tell me, darling, how’s school? Are you enjoying yourself?”

The question stole Hotch’s breath away, and made the alarms shrill louder. “School?”

Fond exasperation threaded its way across the connection. “Of course, school!” Mock severity sounded in her next words. “Don’t tell me you’re going to be one of those party boys, Aaron! I know it’s fun the first time you’re away from home and can do things without your parents watching over you, but remember why you’re there.”

“I…I…. _School_?!” He was having a hard time keeping the tremor from his voice; it had taken over his body, making him shiver and tremble. “Mom, I…I don’t think this is a school.”

“Of course it’s a school. A very expensive, exclusive school, I might add.”

After a few beats of silence, Hotch sounded small and frightened when he asked, “Why did you send me here, Mom? To this…school…Why?”

“Because that recruiter…Swinburn? Was that his name?...Well, anyway, he said it was just the place for you, darling. It’ll help you when you graduate to have attended there. So have a good time, but keep your grades up.” Her sigh was resigned. “I do wish you could come home for Christmas break, Aaron, but they said it would be better if you didn’t. Can’t say I understand, but as long as you’re going to be a student there, we might as well let them decide things like curriculum and vacations, so you can take full advantage of everything they’re offering, right?”

“I…I guess so.” Hotch was beginning to question his own reality. Everything felt _wrong_. He steeled himself to ask what most concerned him. “Mom, how’s Sean? Can I talk to him?”

He heard his mother calling. “Sean? Angel? Come say ‘hi’ to your brother.” Something inaudible fluttered back at her, barely discernible over the line. All Hotch could tell was that it was his little brother’s voice. The receiver clicked and rustled as it changed hands.

“Aaron?”

“Hey, Sean. How’s it goin’, Bean Sprout?”

Childish outrage came back at Hotch. “ _Not_ Bean Sprout! _Not_!” The argument was forgotten with the ease of familiar sibling rivalry. “When you comin’ home, Aaron? Miss you.”

“Uh…I don’t know, Sprout…”

“ ‘Kay.” With the simplicity of his age, Sean accepted his brother’s absence. Having learned all he needed, he handed the phone back to his mother.

“Aaron, I have to go, but it’s so good to hear from you. Now, you work hard and keep your grades up. Make your Daddy and me proud. Love you, darling. Bye…”

The connection closed. Hotch trembled. His heart was pounding. His breath short. The mention of his father in such a light, inconsequential way unnerved him. _All I ever wanted was to make him proud! No one gets that. No one. Not even Mom._

He replaced the receiver in its cradle. Pushing back, he huddled against the headboard, knees drawn up, staring at the silent, ominous phone.

He hadn’t gotten a chance to ask for any pictures to remind him that as misfit as he must be, he’d come from a family after all. _Maybe next time._

But Hotch wasn’t at all sure there would be a next time.

 

xxxxxxx

 

The call home affected Hotch in a way well-meaning Brenda and Ken couldn’t have predicted.

The boy stayed close to his room for the next several days. He seemed to have taken a step backwards. He looked more lost and preoccupied. He picked at his food and spent his free time in his room surrounded by books. He was unfailingly polite as the staff felt him drifting farther and farther away.

When it seemed Hotch wouldn’t turn things around on his own, intervention was deemed necessary.

“We’re walking a fine line, Ken,” said the Chief of Administration. “I know your strategy is to give the boy freedom and encourage him to push the boundaries that abuse imposed on him, but…” He shook his head. “…the opposite of abusive attention isn’t permissive attention. It’s guidance. You can’t just hope the pain will drain off. You also have to push it out by replacing it with what the kid should have been given all along.”

The Chief was a grandfather several times over. He peered in exasperation at the man before him who had yet to attain simple fatherhood. “You wanted this boy here, Ken. For heaven’s sake…just go hug him and if he flinches, hug him harder.” He waved a dismissive hand. “You’ll figure it out. Now get out of here.”

Morrison backed away, turning before the older man could see his sour look of disagreement. The Chief believed in teaching a child to swim by throwing him into the deep end of the pool. It was an old school way of doing things in Ken’s estimation. It might work for some hardy, trusting souls, but Hotch was fragile. _If he’s cracked already, that kind of treatment might shatter him. Not gonna risk it, Chief. Sorry._

So, at the end of the day, when his group sessions and individual appointments and meetings were over, Dr. Morrison headed toward the wing where Hotch was spending most of his time behind a closed door. He didn’t bring the duplicate key with him. If the door was locked and the boy refused to open it, he wasn’t going to force him. _Can’t change the rules on him like that. He needs consistency so he can learn to trust in the adult world. Not gonna invade him…I’ll just in **vite** him._

Sure enough, the door was shut. The doctor tapped lightly, but continuously.

“Hotch? Son, I’d like to talk to you. Open up, okay? Please?”

Silence.

“Aaron? It’s me, Dr. Morrison. I just need a minute, okay?”

No response.

“Aaron? Hotch?”

It was so quiet. A career of dealing with troubled children who sometimes couldn’t see past their immediate pain to a time when life would be different began to erode Ken’s studied calm. Stepping back from the door, he came to a decision. Turning on his heel, he headed for housekeeping and the duplicate key that would let him into Hotch’s room.

By the time he reached the corner, he was running.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Morrison was loathe to let anyone else in on his mission to enter Aaron’s room.

He didn’t know anything for sure, except that the boy wouldn’t welcome unnecessary attention. _And there’s no reason to believe that anything ‘necessary’ needs to be done_ , he reminded himself. _Maybe he went out and locked the door behind him. Maybe he’s not even there._ But based on the pattern to which Hotch had adhered for the last several days, Ken knew he was probably sticking to the room that likely afforded him the safest retreat he’d ever known.

The housekeeping office was vacant. The doctor recognized the newest key hanging from a peg with a tag bearing Hotch’s room number. He snagged it like a relay racer, swiveling mid-step and heading back the way he’d come, at speed.

He slowed before Aaron’s room in the nearly deserted wing. Tapping once more on the door, Ken tried to rouse the occupant. “Hotch? Hotch! Are you okay? I’m coming in, son!” Even as he’d been speaking, he’d fitted the key in the lock. Turning it, he opened the door and entered.

The room was darkened. The blinds had been closed; the drapes drawn, but the spill of light coming from the hallway showed Morrison enough.

A dark, limp-limbed bundle curled in the center of the bed.

“Aaron?” Heart thumping an uncomfortable rhythm of panic, Ken moved to the slight figure…

…and expelled a shuddering breath of relief he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

Hotch’s chest was rising and falling in the slow, even cadence of deep sleep. Morrison switched on the bedside lamp. His relief was followed by concern. There were purple smudges beneath the boy’s eyes. _He hasn’t been sleeping. Probably passed out from exhaustion. But what’s been keeping him up?_

A wave of guilt swept over the doctor. He knew Aaron had been a little off, but not how bad it was. Between the boy’s own schedule of tutorial sessions and his own responsibilities to his patients, Ken hadn’t seen much to worry about. Adolescents were a moody bunch. He’d attributed Hotch’s behavior to normal teenage maladies until Brenda had said something, and then the Chief had pulled him in for that quick discussion. _I should have paid more attention. He’s not the problem the other kids are, but he’s just as fragile. Maybe more so. And he’s mine…my special case._

Nonetheless, he smiled as he took in the details of the scene. Hotch was nestled among books. Mostly books about coins, but some from the library about pirate treasure. _So he **is** listening to me. That’s good._

Morrison sat on the bed and studied the unconscious form. After a time, he moved the books away, lifting arms and legs that were draped over them with gentle hands. He stacked the volumes on the desk, taking every care to do so without waking the boy. Next, he removed tennis shoes, loosened clothing, and maneuvered the slender body between the sheets, pulling the blankets up to Aaron’s chin.

Finally, Ken smoothed the dark hair and looked at the drawn, exhausted features. _Sleep, son. But tomorrow we’ll talk and see if I can’t free you from at least a few of your demons. And I’ll spend more time with you, or at least make sure you know to speak up when you’re troubled. Poor kid._

Through it all, Hotch remained oblivious to everything that went on around him.  But when he woke the next day, warm and comfortable, and saw the books tidied away in neat stacks, he’d know…

It was the first time in over a decade that someone had tucked him into bed. 


	8. The View From The Attic

Hotch’s sleepless nights since phoning home caught up with him.

What his mind denied him with its endless worry, his body demanded as its right. He might have been able to hold out longer if he hadn’t still been growing. As it was, food and rest weren’t as optional as they would be after he’d attained adulthood. When he opened one groggy eye, disorientation hit. It took a few seconds for him to recall that he was in his own room at a place reserved for problem children, and even among the troubled, he was termed ‘special.’

But something else was wrong. He couldn’t put his finger on it at first.

His mouth felt as though he hadn’t brushed his teeth before going to bed. The unpleasant taste jogged his memory. _I fell asleep reading…_ Yet the bed was roomy. He wasn’t hemmed in by the maximum number of books the library would allow him to carry away…literary plunder. He turned his head to the side. The books he’d been reading were in neat stacks on his desk. Craning his neck, he surveyed his own body. Blanketed. Still clothed, but shoes off and buttons undone.

It was a slow realization that someone had done this to him. Such gentle treatment was so alien to Hotch’s world that, even though kind, it unsettled him. He’d been at someone’s mercy; a state he’d promised himself would never, ever, _ever_ happen again after the last knock-down, drag-out fight that ousted his father from the family home.

Closing his eyes, he let his head fall back on the pillow. He couldn’t quell the gut-deep surge of anxiety at the thought of being so helpless…and unaware of someone getting that close. _Calm down…calm down…_ He startled when a tap came at the door, followed by a voice pitched too low to awaken, but loud enough be heard by one already up.

“Hotch? It’s Dr. Morrison, son. If you’re awake, open the door.”

Still breathing hard from the lingering thought of his own vulnerability, Aaron rolled out of bed and padded to the door. Hand on the knob, he stole a moment to compose himself. _I’m okay…I’m okay…I’m okay…nothing happened…not hurt…I’m okay…_ When he opened the door, Hotch encountered another first; as unsettling as having been tucked into bed.

Ken stood there with a warm smile and a tray bearing scrambled eggs, bacon, buttered toast, and a glass of milk. “I know you missed a meal last night, Hotch. Didn’t want you to miss two in a row. You know…want you to grow up strong and healthy.”

The boy stared, he couldn’t get used to having someone show concern for his wellbeing. And not just as he was now, but giving thought to his future. Somehow, Aaron realized, he’d never expected to grow up. Now there was talk about college and nutrition. These people believed he had a future, because it was something they took for granted. They couldn’t understand how many times his mind had balked at the concept. It wasn’t the kind of thing he could explain, or even come to terms with himself. Being someone who was disposable just _was_.

Like being at fault.

Like being sorry.

Like the color of the sky.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Morrison gave the boy a few moments to invite him in.

When eyes that never seemed to lose their tragic edge moved with slow deliberation from the food to the doctor’s face and back again, Ken took the initiative. Pushing past Hotch, he looked for a place to set the tray. Books took up most of the surfaces. Books in neat, regimented stacks.

It disturbed Ken that there was none of the typical teenage clutter and mess. Clothes weren’t draped over furniture or crumpled on the floor. Contraband like candy wrappers or half-eaten bags of chips didn’t crunch underfoot. He turned in a slow circle, looking at things he’d missed the previous night when his mind and vision had tunneled in on the unconscious child rather than his surroundings.

 _I bet he caught holy hell if he left any sign of his existence at his home. Damn._ Ken’s jaw clenched. _And he’s still following that pattern. We can take him out of an abusive environment, but it’s still inside of him, leaking its poison into every act, every thought. Damn, damn, damn…_

Finally, he faced Hotch who was still watching him as though breakfast were a foreign custom. Morrison looked him up and down. The room might be uncharacteristically tidy, but its occupant looked a little the worse for wear. Despite the prolonged sleep, there were still dark crescents beneath Aaron’s eyes. His hair was a thicket of frightened cowlicks, giving him an electrically alarmed look. The clothing that the doctor had loosened in consideration of the boy’s comfort the night before hung on the slight frame, giving Hotch a waifish air.

All in all, it looked as though they’d lost some ground in this particular adolescent’s rehabilitation. **_I’ve_** _lost ground. He’s **my** responsibility._ Morrison gave himself a mental kick for not being able to juggle his regular workload as well as the extracurricular project of one, skinny, lonely, abused teenage boy.

The doctor did another quick scan of the room. “There’s really no place to put this…” He nodded at the tray. “I’m thinking breakfast in bed is the answer. Get back in, son.”

Hotch blinked. Apparently, not only was breakfast seemingly a foreign custom, but so was eating it in bed. In truth, he never had. Even when suffering the colds and coughs and standard ailments of childhood, little Aaron hadn’t been accorded that kind of care. He’d crept about his father’s mansion like a mouse, like unwanted vermin that risked extermination if discovered.

Ken’s professional acumen was running full tilt as he put together more pieces of the puzzle. _No one’s taken care of this kid. He’s freaked out and trying to keep it under wraps. So…I already scared him by entering his room last night when he thought it was a sanctuary where no one could get at him. And now I’m looming over him and behaving in a way that doesn’t equate with past experience._ He sighed. _Way to go, Doc. Way to put a scared kid at ease._

His voice was as soft and unthreatening as if he were coaxing a wild animal into reach. “Hotch, it’s just breakfast. I thought we’d have more time to talk if we ate meals together. If that’s alright with you…” Ken felt the boy’s indecision and confusion. “Think of it as a picnic on the bedspread, okay? And you don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to.” He gave his most encouraging smile. “But you do have to eat. That’s non-negotiable.”

Hotch squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, rubbing at them with his palms. “Sorry, sorry. Sure we can talk, Dr. Morrison. Sorry.” He stepped aside, granting access to the bed.

Taking care not to spill the glass of milk, Ken set the tray down in the center. He felt as though he’d scored a victory. He was determined to make the most of it. Taking a seat at the foot of the mattress, he picked up a piece of toast, folding it around a rasher of bacon to make a mini-sandwich. “Dig in, Hotch.” The doctor pushed the mounded plate of eggs toward the boy perching on the edge, looking like a perpetual flight risk.

Aaron’s stomach gave a low growl…a beast issuing a warning if its demands were ignored. Morrison had expected him to attack the meal with gusto. His concern about the boy’s mental state increased when instead of inhaling his food, Hotch picked at it, eyes darting toward the doctor as though waiting for the real reason behind this show of consideration.

“You’ve been sad lately.”

A one-shouldered shrug was the only response. That, and increased concentration on pushing eggs around the edges of an overfull plate. But Hotch was up against an expert. Even so, it wasn’t professional skill that would excavate answers from the sullen teen, but the genuine care that emanated from one of the few adults who’d elected to spend more than token time with the boy.

For his part, Morrison was reviewing his arsenal of tactics intended to overcome adolescent angst and depression.

One of his tried-and-true favorites was leading the patient to consider the future. Usually not in a big way. The doctor would try to get the child to find something to look forward to. Depending on the severity of withdrawal from the rest of the world, it could be as unimpressive as having him write down the T.V. shows that he’d like to see during the next week. Or what he’d like to do the next time family came to visit. The point was to invite the brain mired in despair or apathy to turn away from the inner malaise and look outward. Let it catch a glimpse past its self-imposed bounds. Entice it to do so regularly, in ever-expanding ways, and eventually it would see a world filled with offerings and adventure.

Or so it was hoped.

“It’s not always easy to know why we’re sad.” Ken picked up another piece of toast, but deposited it on Aaron’s plate. “If you’re gonna push the egg around, push it onto this. And then try eating it.”

“Sorry.” Hotch stopped playing with his food, but instead of eating, he went still, eyes fixed on some inner landscape.

The doctor’s voice was almost hypnotic. “What are you seeing, Aaron…? I bet you’ve spent a lot of your life watching things. Observing. What do you see? Can you tell me?” He held his breath when the boy spoke in a soft, hesitant voice.

“Used to watch for Dad to come home…” Downcast eyes. “Stood at the attic window…Can see everything from there. Whole street.” An audible swallow. Breathing more audible, too. “I’d wait for his car.”

Ken felt his lungs strain. He had to breathe. He did it in shallow sips, keeping perfectly still. It was like watching a fawn. Knowing it would bolt at the slightest provocation. Knowing the sight of it was a rare occurrence. Knowing if you scared it, it might never appear again.

“I could tell by his walk if I should…if he was…”

Hotch’s face was impassive, but Morrison could see the boy’s stomach muscles tense; his throat work. _He’s trying not to cry. God, you poor kid…_

“Sometimes he’d come home early. Sometimes late.” Aaron’s eyes filled. He gave a long, shuddering sigh. “I spent so much time in that attic. At that window. Just watching.”

Ken waited.

When it seemed certain that Hotch didn’t have anything else to say, the doctor’s words came hushed and from his heart. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The boy’s head turned. He finally made eye contact. “That’s what I always said. It doesn’t help.”

Morrison nodded, biting his lower lip. _Gotta get this kid out of the past and make him see it doesn’t have to dictate his future._   Hotch looked away, eyes fixing on the window, blinds and drapes drawn even though it was approaching midday.

“Sometimes I still hear his car. And I have to look for it.”

“And that’s why you’re keeping the window covered?”

Hotch nodded, eyes dropping to his hands. He’d rendered the piece of toast into a drift of crumbs mounded against the eggs.

“So why now? You were doing pretty well last week. What changed?”

Hotch couldn’t keep from glancing toward the desk. Even with books stacked around it, hemming it in, blocking it from sight…he could still hear his mother’s breathy, fanciful cheer coming over the phone. But there was no way he could say anything disparaging about her. It would make him feel like a traitor. It would be like losing both parents, not just his father.

And Hotch wasn’t ready to be an orphan, even if his mother hadn’t afforded his life much comfort. As it was, he felt as though he’d already said too much.

He shrugged. “Not important.”

What the doctor heard was a damaged child rendering judgment on himself. On his past, his present, and, worst of all, on his future. _Not important._

Morrison believed in learning as a lifelong process. He believed everyone and everything could offer valuable lessons. He’d shunned the Chief Administrator’s earlier suggestion, but now he thought the older man might be able to teach him a thing or two. Maybe it came with the territory of being a grandfather. _Hell, it’s worth a try._

He slid the breakfast tray aside and hugged Hotch. Hard.

And when the boy flinched, Ken hugged him even harder.


	9. Blinds

Hotch knew when he was beaten.

There was no way to refute the strength of the arms bracketing him. After a while, he stopped trying. Morrison held him closer and tighter if he struggled, so Hotch gave in. He did little more than tremble…and realize that what was happening was okay. He was being overpowered, but not hurt. And there was a kind of communication in it. It was like learning a new language. This adult wasn’t bent on dominating him or forcing him or conquering him. This adult was telling him he was worth caring about; worth hanging onto.

After a while, Hotch felt he was being supported, protected.

After a while, Hotch didn’t mind it so much.

After a while, he kind of liked it.

It was like hiding, but with an overlay of security thrown in. He sensed that there was no way Dr. Morrison would let anyone harm him. At least, not while he was around. When the doctor spoke, it was like an affirmation.

“I know apologizing, saying you’re sorry, doesn’t always help, but I _am_ , son. I’m sorry for all that happened to you. Swear to God, if I’d been there…” Ken caught his breath. The surge of rage on this child’s behalf…on _all_ children’s behalves…was disturbing in its ferocity and depth. He’d encountered abused teens throughout his career, but Hotch possessed an awareness of his own victimization and a horrifying acceptance of it that touched all of the doctor’s heartstrings.

He sucked in breath and forced his words to be calmer for Aaron’s sake. “You’re safe here. I won’t let anything like that happen to you ever again.”

“You can’t say that.” Hotch’s small voice came from where it was muffled against the older man’s chest. “No one can promise stuff like that.”

Morrison felt a hopeless kind of grief seeping into his rage. _This poor kid doesn’t even have the comfort of illusion._ He knew honesty would be the only method that could win Aaron’s trust, or at least keep communication going. “You’re right…you’re right. I can’t promise no one will ever hurt you again. But, _God_!...” He crushed the boy a little tighter. “…God, I wish I could.”

“Me, too.”

The doctor sighed, rubbing Hotch’s back with rough affection. “Well, maybe that’s something to work toward, huh? All I can do is try to fix damage once it’s done. Maybe you’ll be someone who makes sure it doesn’t happen in the first place.”

“Maybe.” Aaron sounded distant as his imagination latched onto the possibility of routing evil out of the world before it could impact the innocent. But it sounded like a make-believe, fairytale, super-hero kind of occupation. Didn’t exist. Not possible. His sigh echoed Morrison’s.

The boy wasn’t struggling to get free, so Ken kept him wrapped in a paternal hug, wishing he could leach fear and pain out of the child’s very bones. But he had patients to see, therapy groups to run, meetings to attend. “Hotch, I have to get back to work, but I want you to think about some things.”

“Like what?”

“Like what you want to be. What kind of work you want to do. Or at least what direction you want to take after high school. I’m not asking for a decision. Just possibilities. Hopes and dreams.”

The slight hesitation before Hotch said “Okay,” made the doctor think his assessment had been right. _He’s not thinking about a future. Might not think he has one. So the ‘what do you wanna be when you grow up’ ploy ought to ease him into looking forward instead of back…or instead of looking nowhere at all._

He finally let the boy out of his arms and was gratified that he didn’t pull away as though he were escaping unwanted imprisonment. Standing, Ken glanced at the covered windows. “Has keeping the blinds and drapes drawn made the sound of your father’s car go away?”

“No.” It was half defeat, half shame.

“Then let’s try something else.” Morrison kept a surreptitious watch on Aaron as he pulled the drapes back. “Believe it or not, light is essential for humans. Living in the dark can have some pretty negative consequences. Emotionally as well as physically. So…” With slow, careful movements, he adjusted the blinds to half-mast. “…if you have windows with blinds, you can set them like this.” He stood back, appraising both the increased illumination and the boy’s wary eyes. “Now you have light, but it’s not easy for anyone to see in. They’d have to be at the right angle, looking down from above. No one can see you, Hotch. Think this’ll work for you? You’ll at least give it a try?”

Aaron stepped over to the nearest window. Standing to the side, he inspected the view. Ken had tilted the slats backwards from their intended design. Light poured through the up-tilted louvers, but anyone passing by would really have to make an effort to peek in.

A ghost of an almost-smile touched Hotch’s lips. “Yeah. This’ll work. Thanks.”

“Good.” Morrison made for the door. “Now, please…eat some breakfast. And think about what you’d like to do after you graduate.” He paused just outside. “How ‘bout if I come back and we have dinner together? Talk about it then.”

“Sure. Okay. And…thanks for…well, just…thanks.”

Ken beamed a huge grin at the boy, feeling they might be on the right track at last.

After he left, Hotch closed and locked his door. He stood at one of the windows and played with adjusting the blinds. He hoped if he did have a future, that wherever he ended up, there would be blinds.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch had his own afternoon tutorial sessions to attend.

They weren’t very challenging, but he felt buoyed by the instructor’s praise and occasional delighted surprise at his student’s abilities. Although sometimes Hotch thought the accolades too extravagant, and wondered if this was all part of the treatment for broken people like him; to shore up the ruins with insincerity.

Afterwards, he walked outdoors, taking a route that would bring him to the windows of his room. From outside, he studied the effect of the strategically tilted blinds. It was impossible to see inside. Even if he were as tall as he recalled his father being, the angle rendered the interior completely private.

Sighing, Aaron’s head hung. He knew the man was dead. There was no way he could rise from the grave and find his eldest son in this institution.

But sometimes…sometimes when the fog that could still claim him twisted in a certain way…sometimes Hotch wished his father _could_ come back. Just for a few minutes. Just to answer a few questions. The questions that Aaron had practiced and been prepared to ask, but hadn't been given the chance. He'd been so ready. And then, word of Hotchner, Sr.’s death had come. Sometimes, wandering in that thick, white mist, he could almost imagine it…confronting his father.

_“Why, Dad? Why me?”_

With no one to answer him, Hotch searched within himself, skimming the surface for reasons. _There must have been something wrong with me that Dad saw first. Now everyone sees it. That’s why I’m here. So Dad was right all along._

Ashamed of having disappointed his own father, Aaron crept back to his room and waited for Dr. Morrison. It hardly seemed worthwhile to spend time exploring possible things he could be when he was older. Because the main thing he was and would likely always be…was broken.

A big, disappointing, walking error.

 

xxxxxxx

 

When Ken had put all his duties to rest for the day, he went to the kitchen with the intention of bringing another tray to Hotch’s room. He sniffed at the nutritionally balanced meal featuring fish as the protein. The doctor didn’t like seafood very much. _But it’s Friday, so…_ In deference to Catholic tastes, nearly every institution in the country, from public schools to airlines served fish on Fridays. Or at least provided it as an option. The Center wasn’t flush enough to serve multiple entrees. So…fish sticks.

Ken didn’t have any inkling of Aaron’s religious background. Faith didn’t seem to have played a major role in the boy’s life. Even if it had, he didn’t think it would be too much of a breach if he found something else for their dinner. _After all, the kid needs fattening up._

Half an hour later, bearing bags containing burgers, fries and milkshakes, he knocked on Hotch’s door.

“Cheeseburgers.” Morrison brandished one bag, looking over the boy’s shoulder as he did so. The drapes were still open; the blinds all adjusted to the same angle he’d demonstrated earlier. _At least he hasn’t retreated back into the dark._ “Other stuff.” He gestured with the second bag, reeking of fried potatoes going cool where they nestled against the milkshakes.

Hotch stepped backwards, allowing entry.

Ken deposited his fast-food bounty on the desk. There was room. A great number of the books were back on the bed where the boy had been ensconced in a nest of them.

The doctor glanced at them as he unpacked their meal. “So what are you reading?”

“Just coin stuff.”

Morrison extended an oversized, paper-wrapped sandwich toward Hotch. “I got the works. After that pizza at the mall, I figured you’d be able to handle it.” _And I really hope I can get your appetite back to that level of hearty._

“Thanks.” The boy took it, but didn’t tear into it as Ken had hoped. Instead, he chewed on his lip, frowning, contemplating the floor at his feet.

 _Something’s bothering him._ The doctor sighed at the understatement. _Hell, **lots** of things are bothering him. But it looks like one might be working its way to the surface._

“Dr. Morrison?”

“Hmmm?” Ken bit into his own burger, taking a seat on the edge of the mattress as he glanced over the array of reading material.

“It’s kind of weird to hear my Dad’s car, isn’t it…” Not a question. A judgment.

Ken chewed and swallowed. He didn’t want his answer to seem like a quick, unconsidered, pat response. He waited until Hotch’s eyes darted his way. Caught them. Held them. “No, son. It’s not weird at all.”

“But he’s been gone for a while. So, why…” Aaron expelled a small puff of frustration. He didn’t have the words to express all he felt and feared. Broaching the subject had been hard enough.

“Hotch, people linger on in different ways. Your father may have passed away, but he’s not gone. Not from you. There’s nothing strange about that at all. Sometimes it means you have unfinished business. Maybe you hear him drive up because you need him to…not because you’re afraid he will. Maybe you’re covering the windows because your rational mind knows he can’t be out there and it bothers you to think you’re hearing him. Makes you think you’re ‘weird.’ But your subconscious keeps bringing him back, because there’s something unfinished between you. It’s not your father you need to talk to. It’s you. All the answers are there. Give them time to show themselves.”

Aaron’s eyes had gone wide. His throat and stomach tightened. This man who barely knew him had just laid one of his deepest secrets out in plain sight. Had made it look reasonable. Acceptable. Not shameful or crazy. But he couldn’t accept this.

_There **is** unfinished stuff. I want to ask him why. But most of all, I still want to make him proud of me. And it’s too late. I can never make that happen now. And whatever’s inside me can’t make it happen either. So that’s **not** where all the answers are. Inside me is where all the **problems** are._

Standing, Morrison set his burger aside. With gentle strength, he sat the stunned teen down on the bed. He folded back the paper wrapping of the sandwich clutched in Hotch’s hand and patted his shoulder before resuming his own seat and meal.

Clearly, the boy needed time to examine the prospect of unfinished business. Ken waited. When Aaron finally took a distracted bite of his burger, the doctor took it as a sign that they could move on. But he thought a change in subject would be politic.

“So did you have a chance to think about life after high school? What you’d like to do?”

Hotch's fixed eyes stared inward. At last, blinking as though he were emerging into the light…as though someone had finally angled the blinds inside his mind… Hotch looked up.

“I think I want to study law…I think I should be…try to be…a lawyer.”

Morrison munched on his burger and nodded. “Good. Something to work toward. And I bet you’d make a fine one. So, why law?”

Hotch didn’t hear. He was thinking he might have hit on something that would have made his father proud: to have a son follow in his footsteps. Even if that son was a mess, it was still a tribute.

And he was listening for a car just beyond the blinds.


	10. Heartthrob

Dr. Morrison had as many meals as he could in Hotch’s company.

They didn’t always discuss things. Sometimes the doctor was tired or preoccupied with his patients and their issues. Sometimes the boy was moody or equally preoccupied with his own thoughts. Still, after several weeks, Ken’s opinion was that Hotch was introspective and troubled, but also possessed of keen perception and a dry wit that showed itself far too rarely.

But there were also times when Aaron seemed distant and distracted in a different way; traveling some internal road the doctor suspected was wending its way through the boy’s past. He only hoped it would find a way out. He’d watch Hotch’s unfocused gaze for as long as he could stand it before interrupting whatever phantom journey was underway.

“Where are you, son? What are you thinking?” Spoken with the calm tone one would take when addressing a sleepwalker. Generally, this would get no response. Ken would lean close, give one of the narrow shoulders a gentle shake. “Hotch?”

With a start, Aaron would return to the present, eyes fastening on the man gripping him. And always there would be a momentary shadow of fear flitting through the dark depths before the boy became fully aware of location and company.

He’d shrug, in part as response to the question he hadn’t quite heard but suspected had been asked, and in part to free himself from the hand stronger than his own, however well-intentioned. Hotch liked being touched affectionately. The hugs and friendly caresses were like balm on a soul-deep wound.

But, newly arrived from the places that lived in the whispering white fog, he couldn’t help seeing the ghost of another hand…adult, male, large and controlling…superimposed upon the doctor’s.

So Hotch would shrug it off and feel bad when Morrison’s inevitable query… “Son, what’s wrong?”…made him hope the doctor didn’t think Aaron was rejecting him personally.

Hotch would huddle in on himself, mumbling. “I’m okay…I’m okay…”

But neither of them believed it.

Ken would pull back. _Give him time. That’s why he’s here._

 

xxxxxxx

 

Concerned that Hotch was spending too much of that time alone, the doctor sought opportunities for him to socialize with other teens outside the Center. His suggestions about clubs and dances and sporting activities were met with polite disinterest.

“Wasn’t there something you did in school, Hotch? Any extracurricular activities?”

The questions were met with a blank look. When the answer came, it was intended as sarcasm. “Mostly I ran.”

Aaron had been recalling the strictures, enforced with fists, that he be home within minutes once classes were over. He’d also referenced the only escape tactic he had from Randy Crenshaw and his schoolyard toadies. But Ken was so anxious to unearth things that would shoehorn the teen back into a peer group in an enjoyable way, that he missed Hotch’s acerbic tone.

“Track? You like running?” Morrison pulled back, surveying the body that had more length than girth; that was built more for speed than displays of muscular power. He nodded. “Yeah. I could see you being pretty fast.” It wasn’t the group activity the doctor had envisioned, but it was better than nothing. Better than too many hours alone. Better than a sulky adolescent growing into a brooding adult.

So, with Ken’s encouragement and enablement, Hotch began running. At first, it was because he’d felt bad about giving the one supportive man in his life a mocking answer. But as time went on, Aaron enjoyed it. Running let his mind turn inward in a different way. The world narrowed down to lungs and sinews, to sweat and breath. He liked it.

He was good at it.

People noticed.

Girls noticed.

Hotch liked it even more.

 

xxxxxxx

 

One Saturday afternoon, after having watched Hotch sprint around the indoor track at the local gym, and having seen the boy pour on even more speed… legs lifting higher, shoulders squaring, biceps flexing… when he became aware of female attention, Morrison thought the time was right for…The Talk.

It didn’t go the way he’d planned.

Aaron had run himself out. Not just for the girls. Mostly because he’d found that running helped silence things inside him. He liked the physical exhaustion more than anything. He’d stretch himself to the limit and his father’s image, echoing his father’s voice, would dim. Letting speed and endurance claim him loosened the hold of the past. The fog dissipated. He could almost see another shore through its thinning mists. Worn out, he was complacent and relaxed when Ken suggested they order Chinese food and take it back to the Center.

Aaron’s bedspread had become their dining room. They’d shared numerous meals on its navy blue expanse. Hotch’s room afforded privacy and over time had become a safe haven for the boy.

“So…” Ken noted that Hotch’s appetite was better these days; more like the version that had decimated the epic pizza a few months ago. But increased physical exertion might have more to do with that than improved mental aspect. “…So…you had quite an audience today, young man.”

“Huh?” Hotch was learning chopsticks. It took most of his concentration.

“Two blondes…four brunettes…and a cute, little redhead, by my count.”

Aaron lowered his head, making chopsticks his whole world. Morrison sighed and decided this was one of those times when he’d have to forge ahead on his own.

“Girls like you, Hotch.”

The one-shouldered shrug was an eloquent illustration of disbelief.

Ken read it correctly. _The boy doesn’t have a clue about the laws of attraction, or his part in them!_ “No, it’s true. They didn’t _have_ to watch you. There were lots of other distractions of the male variety around. And yet…they were fastened on _you_ from start to finish. And I think you kind of knew it. Kind of liked it. Am I right?”

The best that could be said was that Hotch looked less morose than usual. It might even have been possible that one corner of his mouth twitched upward in hopeful acknowledgement that the fairer sex _had_ given him their stamp of approval. Or at least incipient interest. But when he really thought about it, there was only one girl whose notice he craved.

“Did you have any girlfriends before you came here?” The doctor kept his tone casual. One man to another…no detectable censure or hint of a possible lesson in the offing.

“No.”

“Huh.” Ken gave the terse response some consideration. That one word had been redolent with sadness and regret and longing. In fact, it had contained an entire teenage love story, if he was reading Hotch’s intonation correctly. “When I was your age, I thought my heart would break. I was invisible to girls. Sometimes I think I still am.” He gave a wry chuckle. “Well, to the one, special, _right_ girl anyway.”

That caught Hotch’s attention.

Morrison poked around inside a carton of noodles. “I would have given anything to have the attention of those pretty, young things who were so fascinated with you today.”

“Really?” Aaron was hungry for more, but didn’t feel comfortable or confident enough to ask outright.

“Yes, really. But that was then and this is now.” Ken turned a brief smile on the boy. “Things get better once you’re a little older. The real trick is waiting out the hard part ‘til you are. And…of course…getting through your first heartbreak.” The bait had been offered, the doctor resumed his meal, waiting to see if Hotch would bite.

“Girls didn’t notice me at home. Not, like you said, the _right_ girl…”

“Sometimes that means she’s not the right one.”

“No. She is. She’s…” Hotch’s chest rose and fell in a sigh that had ‘smitten’ all over it. “…she’s perfect.”

“Mmmmm, I see…” Morrison nodded. “Have you given her a _chance_ to notice you?”

Aaron paused mid-chew. “Wha’d’you mean?”

“Did you ever put yourself out there where she could see you? This afternoon you were running full out. Only guy on the track going faster than a jog. Only guy working up a sweat. That drew them. Liking what they saw _kept_ them.” Ken smiled inwardly at Hotch’s expression of dawning realization. “Ever step up like that for…what’s her name?”

“Haley. Her name’s Haley.”

“Haley. Like the comet. Nice name. Ever make any gesture that would make her look your way?”

Hotch shook his head. He didn’t want to say that in a way he was glad she hadn’t noticed him. The sorry picture he knew he presented wouldn’t garner the kind of attention he craved.

“Well, she won’t know you’re interested unless you do, son.”

“She wouldn’t want me.” It took Aaron some effort to get the words out.

“Why not?” Morrison had thought this would be a conversation that would let him gage the boy’s familiarity with the basics of sex, but he was getting the feeling that a more important issue might be rearing its head. During the long silence that followed his question, he grew sure of it.

“What makes you think the girl wouldn’t want you?” His voice was soft, gentle, in deference to this most sensitive of adolescent minefields.

Hotch’s appetite had been replaced by the anxious, swooping stomach that had made him miserable whenever he’d been close to Haley. Really, he’d only occupied a peripheral position, if any, in her awareness. Once he’d picked up a book she’d dropped and handed it back to her, torn between wanting to talk to her and wanting to hide.

One memorable day he’d made the uncharacteristic, desperate move of joining the Drama Club because Haley was its queen. It hadn’t worked out as he’d hoped, though. Shy Aaron, so lacking in confidence, had mumbled his way through an audition for ‘Romeo and Juliet.’ He hadn’t been cast. The only good part of the experience was that Haley hadn’t been present to see his humiliation. The memory still had the power to make him cringe. But Dr. Morrison was asking him something…

“Son, if you’ve been flying under the young lady’s radar, you can’t assume she doesn’t want you. When you get back home, why don’t you ask her out?”

Another topic that could bring on a full-body cringe. Hotch’s shoulders sagged. “Look at me. She’s beautiful. I’m…I’m…” His voice faded. He kept his eyes averted.

Ken felt his heart contract on the boy’s behalf. Every teen went through a version of self-loathing, but Aaron’s was deeper and more destructive thanks to a ‘support’ system that denigrated rather than encouraged. _You poor kid. It’s hard enough to get up the nerve to ask a girl you really like out for the first time, but it’s even harder for someone who’s gone through what you have._

The doctor reached out. Palming Hotch’s chin, he lifted the face that had made girls at the track melt into giggles. “I _am_ looking at you, son. I’m thinking you’re the one who hasn’t confronted a mirror lately.” A kind smile took any sting out of his words. “I’ll admit you were a little scruffy and slight when I first laid eyes on you, but…” He could see wariness in the boy’s eyes. Ken decided a demonstration was in order. He pushed the cartons containing their dinner out of the way and stood. “C’mon. Get up.”

With guarded movements, Hotch rose from his place on the bed. There was no full length mirror in his room. In fact, Morrison wasn’t far off: aside from the mirror hanging over the sink in the small bathroom, Aaron didn’t pay much heed to his appearance. With no reflection to refer to, the doctor had to improvise to get his point across. Stepping close, he stood face to face with Hotch.

“Stand up straight, son.” The typical teenage slouch did a gradual stretch until the boy was at his full height. “Notice anything different from when you first arrived?”

Hotch blinked. He knew he’d grown, but he’d never measured himself against anything, and in this place where most things and people were unfamiliar, he didn’t have the reference points he would have had at home. But there was no denying that he was looking Morrison in the eye without having to tilt his head to look upward.

Ken’s smile spread wider. “You’ve grown about six inches, buddy. And Brenda…uh…Mrs. Franklin…thinks you’re not done yet. I tend to agree. Now…” He stepped over to Hotch’s closet, opening the door and rummaging toward the back where the clothes the boy had on arrival hung in anonymity since the acquisition of his new wardrobe.

Morrison slipped a faded, pilling sweater from its hanger. “Here. Try putting this on. You wore it all the time when you first got here.”

Feeling as though he were a stranger in his own body, Hotch took off his t-shirt and struggled his way into the sweater. No longer the comfortable, old friend he recalled, it stretched across his shoulders and fell to his waist instead of his hips. Neck craning downward, he stared at himself.

“I…I knew I grew, but…” He felt the doctor’s hand patting his back.

“And there’s more to come. The point is, my young friend, you look different. You still have a lot of filling out to do, but you’re definitely noticeable to the female of the species. The only difference between you and the guys you think the girls want, is swagger and bluff. Everyone’s scared and nervous about taking that first step to ask someone out. But…” Ken thought he detected the faintest upward quirk at the edge of Hotch’s lips. “…the scales are tipping in your favor. The next time you see your Haley, go for it.”

Aaron flexed his shoulder blades and heard the knit fabric creak and pop in protest. He decided he’d keep running, but maybe try lifting a few weights, too. And maybe he’d take a little more care with his appearance.

He was still a member of the Drama Club. If he got to go back home, as Dr. Morrison seemed to think, he’d audition for whatever they had. And this time he’d stand tall and speak up and pretend he belonged with the normal kids.

He didn’t care what role he might be given. It could be the lowest of the low. Just as long as it let him get closer to Haley.

The way the doctor was talking, it sounded as though there was a limit to how long he’d be here at this institution, or boarding school, or whatever it was. If he could return to Bluefields looking like an entirely different person, maybe he’d have a chance for something good in his life after all.

But there was really only one thing Hotch wanted. He promised the fates, the gods and every possible power in between,  if he could win Haley, he’d never ask for anything else.


	11. Feeding the Fog

Splitting his days between classes, increased time at the gym, and an ongoing love affair with the library, Hotch settled into a routine.

Whole weeks were blissfully uneventful. It was what Morrison had hoped to provide this boy who needed a haven. Time and quiet were the most soothing bandages for the wounds in his spirit. Occasional injections of encouragement were administered at timely intervals. Too much, and Hotch would become suspicious, undermining the adults’ best intentions with his own self-doubt. So Ken and Brenda tried to keep things genuine, yet random enough for Aaron to recognize their sincerity.

It was hardest for the nurse.

She’d raised her own boys and found her maternal instinct hadn’t faded once they’d flown the nest. At times she wanted to cradle Hotch in her arms and rock him despite his ever-increasing height, crooning into his ear that everything would be wonderful from now on; that all the bad things were behind him. But when she mentioned her wistful impulse to the doctor, he vetoed it.

“Don’t coddle the boy, Bren. Not only will it do him a disservice in preparing him for when he leaves us, but he’ll know it’s not true.” With a touch of chagrin, Morrison admitted to having had the same impulse and following through on it. “He called me out. Told me no one can make guarantees like that.” The doctor shook his head. “Our little Hotch is one sharp cookie.”

Brenda’s eyes filled. “But how horrible that he thinks like that. What kind of world strips children of safety and hope and love when there are so many people out there who’d give everything they have for the right to call a boy like Aaron their own? It’s horrible…just _horrible_.”

“It is.” Ken’s sigh was weary. “But it’s the only world we’ve got.” Seeing the nurse’s distress, he offered hopeful consolation. “But when he grows up, he’ll have more substance and value than most of those kids who had it easier. And something tells me he won’t be the type to sit idly and watch the world pass by. He’ll want to better it. He’ll do something good with his life. I’m sure of it.”

“So his whole life will be a battle? He’s struggled so much already and he won’t be able to rest and find some enjoyment?” To Morrison’s horror, Brenda’s tears overflowed into a sob. “Not fair! Someone needs to show that child how marvelous life can be. He’s not being trained as some kind of soldier! He’s just…just… a boy!”

Ken hastened to give a hug to the woman who usually dispensed them, casting about in desperation for something to console her.

“We’re not training him to be a soldier. Tell you what…why don’t you take him home for Thanksgiving? Show him what a real family is like.” The doctor knew it was against policy to provide that kind of fostering for patients. But Hotch fell outside the lines; he wasn’t really a patient. More like a resident. Besides, the prospect of a few days of uninterrupted pampering was lighting up Brenda’s face as visions of mothering one more youngster banished her tears.

“I could do that? You think they’d let me?”

“There’s no ‘they’ involved. Aaron’s my responsibility. If anyone tries to give you grief over taking him home, send them to me.” Ken’s smile was an echo of the nurse’s. “And I’ll get him for Christmas.”

The nurse was beaming. “You could come for Thanksgiving, too. It might make him feel more comfortable.”

“Thanks, but I think it’ll do him good to forge out on his own a little. I don’t want to run the risk of becoming his security blanket…you know?” Brenda did. “And for Christmas, I’m gonna teach him to ski. He likes speed, so I’m betting it’ll blow him away.”

The adults went their respective ways, content with the plans they’d made for Hotch’s holidays.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Though his days were routine, Hotch wasn’t bored at all.

Something inside him that had felt like a twisted knot was loosening for the first time in his life. He hadn’t realized he’d been housing such tension every waking moment. Now he began to wonder how he’d survived with that all-consuming anxiety as his constant companion.

Whenever he tried to trace the feeling back, hoping to uncover a moment or an incident that had first triggered it, his brain would shut down. The fog would return, billowing around him, folding his past into a cottony white that resisted intrusion. He didn’t know how to fight it or how to communicate it to Dr. Morrison or Mrs. Franklin, so he said nothing, shouldering the burden with no expectation of outside help.

Even if the constriction was easing, it still comprised a tremendous part of Hotch’s psyche, like an annoying ache or a nagging disability.

Like the sky…it just _was_.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Sometimes, when the fog enveloped Hotch, he’d emerge from it and wonder why he’d walked several miles without really noticing where he was going. As the weather edged toward cooler seasons, he’d find himself wandering the Center’s halls in the wing that housed him along with administrative and maintenance facilities. One such time, the fog retracted and he realized he was in the hallway outside the staff lounge.

He could hear voices, but was only able to identify Morrison’s with any certainty. Hotch would have walked away to avoid eavesdropping. But once the words registered, he had no control over his ability to leave. He was as captive to the discussion as he was to the white mists.

“I’m telling you, Sam, the link is formed from parent to child. And they run deep, my friend.”

A mocking sound more appropriate to bleachers than boardroom revealed what ‘Sam’ thought. “That’s not a proven concept. Sounds more like diag-nonsense than diagnosis. I mean, if that were true, we’d be able to predict who the offenders would be, based on their own childhoods, and find a way to break the cycle.”

“Boys, play nice.” The voice was older than Morrison and the unknown ‘Sam.’ “Ken, it’s an interesting theory, but it would take generations of following parents and children in the same genetic lines to even begin to gather something akin to proof. And there’d be a lot of resistance, even if you did find supportive evidence.”

“I know.” Morrison didn’t sound as though he was giving up on the idea. “But think about the unsubstantiated things we've all heard and experienced ourselves. Like…”

The older voice chuckled. “Like my wife at our wedding saying ‘if I ever act like my mother…shoot me.’ And just last night once the grandkids had gone home after putting us both through our paces, she said ‘Oh, God…I’ve turned into my mother! I’m my mother!’”

Male laughter ricocheted around the room before Ken picked up the train of thought once again. “That’s exactly what I mean, even if it’s completely different from outright abusive behavior. The patterns are learned, imprinted on such a deep level, that we’re as unable to identify them as we are to resist them. Even those who detest their parents will one day be surprised to see themselves employing the same life strategies…the same survival tactics.” The doctor was waxing passionate, voice rising and clearly audible to the boy frozen in the hallway.

The 'Sam' voice chimed in. “If you’re raised in a warzone, how can you know anything else? How can you ever experience what we consider ‘normal’ if abnormal surrounds and dictates your life? Abuse wouldn't necessarily be learned, it'd just be the only option you've ever seen.”

“Still, even in that case, the abused becomes the abuser and the chain continues unbroken. Link after link. Generation after generation.” Ken gave a deep sigh. “I don’t want to believe that. It sounds so…hopeless.” A note of wistful longing entered his voice. “Too bad we can’t map things like that. If we could see the patterns forming, maybe we could see a way to intervene before it’s too late.”

“In a perfect world, my friend. In a perfect world…”

The older man interrupted. “You two sound like you’re just tired. Been a long week. You’re forgetting that being raised in a warzone usually makes _de_ fense your first instinct…not _of_ fence. You boys don’t seem to realize that we’ve already made progress. It’s not hopeless by any means, Sam. And you, Ken…you’ve got your special kid. The damage was done, but what I hear from you and Brenda, it wasn’t too late for him. Doesn’t sound as though that boy has any meanness in him. Just needs love. Like they all do. So cheer up, doctors, and pry yourselves out of that theoretical pit you two seem to love to play in. All is not lost…”

Out in the hall, Hotch didn’t hear the hopeful tone that ended the conversation. Or the fact that it was theory, not fact.

The crevasse inside him had opened again, releasing fog. Thick, white, enveloping fog. He found his way back to his room, unaware of time or distance; only realizing he was back when he emerged from the mist to find himself sitting on his bed, staring into the darkness of nightfall.

_I’m going to turn into my father?_ Eyes wide with this new tragedy, Hotch scooted back against the headboard, pulling his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. Making himself small.

He spent sleepless hours huddled into himself, eyes vacant except for when they’d dart toward the angled blinds and the sound of Daddy’s car getting closer and closer.

_Maybe it’s a good thing if no one wants me. I should never be part of a real family if that’s what’s going to happen._

It was a long, lonely night.

But the next day, Hotch went to the library and spent several hours poring over the subject that both horrified and drew him, riveting him with its riddles and dearth of answers: abnormal psychology. If there were telltale signs of monsterhood, then he needed to be on the lookout for them. He thought it might be too late for him, but maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t too late for Sean.

Every time a car pulled into the library parking lot, Aaron would tremble. He wasn’t at all sure anymore if his father was the worst thing that could be behind the wheel. Nor was he sure it would be his father's face reflected in the rearview mirror.

The next week when Morrison offered to get him a learner’s permit and teach him how to drive, Hotch had nightmares.


	12. Silent Scream

Aaron Hotchner was a brave soul.

During the course of his life he would take down criminals who verged on being soulless, would rescue innumerable victims, and would place himself in mortal danger without hesitation.

But the most courageous thing he ever did had nothing to do with weapons or the law or serial killers. His most courageous deed took place among dusty stacks of text books in a dimly-lit library. He was determined to study the monster pulsing through his own veins. Hell-bent on confronting it, looking into its maw and pulling its fangs before they reached out and clamped on some poor innocent who’d never see them coming, because they were disguised by a body and face that tricked people into thinking he was just like them. A real person.

Hotch knew better. Or rather…worse.

The boy asked the most terrifying questions of his life… _What am I? What will I become?_...and went in search of answers.

Filled with ignorance and fear, he set out on a solitary journey to look himself in the eye.

When the answers started coming, they were unsatisfactory. So he looked for more. He looked deeper. He looked for confirmation of what he dreaded. But the science of abnormal psychology wasn’t like chemistry or calculus. There were no black-and-white answers. The human brain and human behavior were unreliable. Hotch felt as though he were trying to wrestle a slippery, squelching Jell-O beast into submission.

Having nearly torn himself in two to find the courage to research monsters in the first place, the lack of solid answers was like a slap in his upturned, vulnerable, questing face. Hotch became distracted and morose going through his daily routine. He struggled to behave as though nothing darkly sick had entered his world and was pacing him like a shadow.

The pressure built.

He couldn’t bring himself to discuss the matter with Dr. Morrison. Too many emotions roiled through the boy, making it impossible to find the right words. And he was now keenly aware of how much he’d grown since his arrival at the Center. He was afraid that talking about the matter of genetic monstrosity might make him cry. _And I’m too big for that._

His turmoil didn’t go unremarked by the adults, but they chose to give him space and let him make the decision of when to ask for help. Adolescence spawned so many rugged mountain ranges out of garden variety molehills that it was hard to know when intervention would be welcomed or deemed intrusive.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Something’s on his mind, Ken.”

Brenda saw little of Hotch these days. Sometimes she’d seek him out at the beginning of her shift, but more often than not all she’d see as evidence of his continued presence was his closed bedroom door.

“Lots of things are on his mind. Goes with the age. He’ll either figure them out himself or let us in when he’s good and ready.” The doctor gave Brenda a sidelong look. “Privacy’s very important to teens. So is pushing adults away and trying to separate yourself . It’s part of the identity process. The urge to define ‘this is me, not you’ usually is tied to rebellion. I’m just glad the kid is choosing to go the silent, solitary route instead of stealing a car and joyriding.”

The nurse gave a long-suffering sigh. “Blah, blah, blah. Book learning versus experience. Don’t you remember what it was like at that age?”

Brenda had expected a flip answer laced with irony. Morrison surprised her. He opened and closed his mouth twice, rethinking his words. A pensive look came over his features. At last, he shook his head, giving her an almost puzzled look. “I remember some things, but the day to day way it felt to be an adolescent? No. I don’t. Do you?”

She smiled. “I remember the high points mostly. Some of the low ones. But I think those years are a lot like childbirth. It’s painful, but afterwards it’s hard to recall just how much. Maybe it’s childbirth for the psyche?”

“Huh.” Morrison gave the idea some consideration. “I never thought of it like that. And since I can’t argue the experience of giving birth, you might be right, Bren. Maybe it’s a survival mechanism, although it’s not like we’ll ever go through adolescence twice in a lifetime. Not like a woman having children. Interesting.”

“Well, here’s something else for you to think about, Ken. It’s easy to say teens’ll figure things out on their own because they’re starting to look like adults. But they’re fragile inside. And please don’t be one of those men who thinks boys shouldn’t cry. They do. They need to.”

The doctor’s voice was soft, conciliatory. “I’m not taking whatever Hotch is going through lightly. It’s just that I feel we’re walking a fine line with him. From what I’ve been told, he had all sense of control taken away from him. That’s why I gave him a door that locks. That’s why I don’t want to barge through it and step all over the slight semblance of control he has now.

“And I’m all for crying. But, again, there’s a fine line. I don’t know if reaching out to comfort him will be construed as an attack. His father beat him. Starved him. Humiliated him. He lets me touch him now without cringing away, but if he’s crying and vulnerable, I don’t know how well he’d tolerate any grown man’s touch.”

The nurse swallowed a lump that felt like anger leavened with sorrow. “Oh, God…I know it happens all the time, but I’ll never understand it. Millions of years of evolution tell us to protect our children…to give our lives for them, if we have to. How does a father turn his back on something that’s programmed into his DNA? What has to happen to make something that primal short circuit?”

“I dunno.” Morrison shook his head. “All I know is that when it happens, it’s devastating. And sometimes…it’s self-perpetuating.”

“That won’t happen with Aaron. He’s a sweet boy. He’s hurt, but it didn’t turn him vicious.”

“No, it didn’t. Thank God for small favors.”

After a few minutes of silence, Ken thought a change in topic would be appropriate. “His birthday’s next week. He’ll be eighteen.”

“Eighteen. Goodness.” Brenda closed her eyes for a moment. “My boys were so involved in, well, _everything_ at that age. I kept thinking how they were teetering on the edge of finally being able to see what their lives would be like. Where they’d like to go. What they’d devote themselves to. It’s so different for Aaron.”

“I wanted to help him get his driver’s license…and I will…but he didn’t seem as enthusiastic as I thought he’d be.” Morrison shrugged. “I’m still  gonna do it, though.”

With sober subject matter hovering over them, Hotch and the concept of happy birthday celebrations seemed mutually exclusive. It was hard to imagine them together. But it was time for Ken to go home and for Brenda to make her first rounds of the evening. Being who she was, she wanted to leave things, if not exactly on a cheerful note, then at least on a hopeful one.

“Well, he needs to catch up to the rest of the world, so the license is a good idea. I hope his family remembers to call or send something, too. And…” She had to put some effort into getting her usual smile back where it belonged. “…I’ll see if I can talk to him and find out if there’s anything special he’d like to do.”

The doctor nodded his gratitude. “If he won’t talk to you, let me know, okay? Maybe between us we can remind him he’s not in this growing-up thing alone anymore.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

With Hotch on her mind, Brenda changed her usual route which would have taken her through the more populated wings first. Almost of their own volition, her feet beat a path to Aaron’s room.

She stopped at the unexpected sight of his door slightly ajar. Not enough to be construed as an invitation to company, but not closed and locked the way it usually was. She stood outside in the hall, listening for a moment.

Hotch was the quietest boy she’d ever encountered. It made her move and speak more softly herself to be near him. He put her in mind of the great Northern forests just over the Canadian border during a snowfall, shrouded in a stillness that at first seemed unnatural, but to which one could acclimate within minutes, becoming part of it, even appreciating it.

Still, Brenda was concerned about any deviation from the norm. She tapped on the door.

“Aaron? May I come in?”

“Yeah.”

She thought it was the most lackluster reply she’d ever heard. Pushing the door open, the nurse surveyed the scene.

It had been a while since she’d been in the boy’s room. It was neat and orderly except for the bed. The mattress fairly sagged beneath the books spread across it. In their midst, Hotch’s slight figure looked up at her, unsmiling. Brenda approached, her own smile fading as she realized the subject matter of the texts surrounding him.

She’d expected more volumes about coin collecting. Morrison had mentioned the boy’s expanding interests…pirate treasure, shipwrecks, exploration, law. But there was none of that in evidence. Instead, disturbing titles peeked out at her.

‘An Introduction to Abnormal and Clinical Psychology’

‘Journey Through the Brain: Abnormalities and Anomalies’

‘Aberrant Adolescent and Child Behavior’

‘Monsters Within: A Text of Abnormal Psychology’

Lurid graphics graced the covers of some. Skulls in cross-section, seeping ghostly images. Brains pulled apart into segments sporting labels like ‘aggression,’ ‘fear,’ and ‘survival.’ A reproduction of Edvard Munch’s ‘The Scream’ sent a shiver of foreboding down the nurse’s spine.

Brenda’s eyes tracked through what looked like an unrelentingly dark obsession with the worst humankind could serve up. But worse than the nest of books dealing with troubling subject matter was the look on Aaron’s face. There was something so bleak in every plane and curve. Again, the nurse thought of the huge, primeval forests of the North. But it wasn’t the stillness this time.

It was the chill. The feeling of being cut off, separated from civilization. Alone. And so very, very cold.

She stepped close enough to stroke a gentle hand across the boy’s dark hair, smoothing the cowlicks in vain. “Aaron, why are you reading all…this?” Her eyes tracked over books propped open, books with markers, books facedown and dog-eared. She heard Hotch swallow.

 “Mrs. Franklin, what’s wrong with me?”

She knew it was a question best left for one of the doctors. But the tortured fear in Aaron’s eyes and the soft, quiet way he pushed the words out, tore at her heart. She didn’t care if she answered with medical inaccuracy or if she overstepped her bounds in answering at all. All she knew was that instead of the almost-man before her, she was seeing a small, precious animal caught in a trap…too young…too innocent…too motherless…

She pushed the books off the bed, almost shoveling them onto the floor to make room for herself. Sitting close, she pulled Hotch’s head against her, keeping it where she could smooth the hair that reminded her of her own son’s, keeping it where she could press a maternal kiss against the temple, keeping it where she could speak into one ear to be certain her words were heard.

“You are _not_ an abnormal child, Aaron. You’ve been hurt. Deeply. For a very long time. But inside where it counts, where everything comes together…” She hugged him as hard as she dared. “…all the beautiful things you are and all the good you’ll do in the world…in that place, no one has hurt you. There isn’t any book that can tell you that. The most important things in the world aren’t in books, Aaron. But there’s a compass inside you that can tell you when people are lying or mean you harm. It also tells you when they’re good and honest and deserve your love. You can’t trust yours yet. But mine’s been doing its job since before you were born. So I know. There is _nothing_ wrong with you. You are _not_ abnormal. You’ve been treated shamefully, but that’s not your fault.

“What you’re reading isn’t about you. It’s about the man who hurt you for so many, many years. It’s _not_ you. It’s him.”

Hotch’s voice was beginning to take on the baritone of adulthood, but it still sounded small and hurt, yet insistent. “But I heard them talking. All the doctors. They said it passes from generation to generation. Like a chain. Like links. I’m linked to my Dad. They said so.”

“When? Who said this to you?” Anger was beginning a slow burn. Soon it would be rage against whomever had been insensitive enough to stoke that kind of hopeless fear in this child. Brenda gritted her teeth. _Just because you have a doctorate, doesn’t mean you’re God. Doesn’t mean you know everything. Doesn’t mean you’re not a bully. An over-educated, arrogant, ignorant bully._ “Who told you that, Aaron? Tell me.”

“I didn’t see them. I know Dr. Morrison was one of them. They didn’t know I was there.”

Despite her anger, the nurse was casting about for scenarios that would restore her faith in her co-workers. She breathed out a sigh of relief. “Oh, Aaron…were you eavesdropping?”

“I didn’t mean to. Honest.”

The nurse buried her faint smile against a sprout of cowlicks. “You poor, little thing. They weren’t talking about you, Aaron. They weren’t talking about you.”

“How d’you know? You weren’t there.”

“I know, because I _have_ been there when you’re the one they’re talking about. And it’s nothing like that.”

Hotch went quiet and still, letting her words sink in. Testing them with that incomplete internal compass she’d said could detect the rightness and goodness of things.

But past her arm against which she cradled his head, he could see the cover of one of the books she’d swept to the floor.

Munch’s ‘The Scream.’

His compass might not be fully functional, but it saw the truth of it, this illustration of madness.

 _So it’s not me? It’s my Dad?_ He heaved a deep, weary sigh, looking at the face distorted and wavering. A captive to its own nightmares. No matter who it was, Hotch had a feeling it would follow him to the end of his days. _Hi, Dad...You're back...Maybe you never left..._


	13. His Father's Son

“You have some serious damage control to do, young man.”

Dr. Morrison started at the strict tone and the term of address that made him wonder if his mother had magically materialized with inexplicable knowledge of all his indiscretions from childhood on. Then he thought it must be a joke. But when he turned to confront Nurse Franklin, that hope shriveled before the sulfurous embers smoldering in the depths of the woman’s eyes.

“What? What did I do?”

“Nothing intentional, but when you’re holding forth in the lounge about child abuse in theory…remember that you have an abused child in _fact_ living in the same wing.”

Morrison’s eyes went distant, dropping to the floor as he tried to recall recent conversations. Time in the staff lounge was sometimes productive, but usually was meant for relaxation via venting frustration or poking fun at each other. It was a way to relieve the stress that built when really you wanted to hit something. Or someone. Daily contact with children suffering injustice and angst made one wish for a target to blame.

These sessions with colleagues were dismissed as soon as the doctors’ shoe leather hit the floor outside the lounge door.

“I’m sorry, Brenda…I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You went on and on about how abuse is passed on from parent to child. About how that child will _become_ the parent. And _some_ one who’s having a hard time defining his place in this world of horrors overheard you.” She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. “ _Some_ one who’s lagging behind when it comes to confidence especially. _Some_ one who took every word to heart.”

“Oh, God. Hotch?”

“Of course Hotch. Numbskull.” She delivered the insult in a breathy aside, eyes still snapping with unresolved anger. “And you should see where it’s taken him, Ken. It’s…it’s…” She couldn’t finish. Biting her lip, her eyes filled. Part of it was that it was well past the night shift and she was tired. Brenda had waited for the doctor to arrive when she should have gone home two hours ago. Part of it was that even after she left Hotch, their conversation had played on an incessant loop through her brain, keeping her unwelcome company during the long, lonely hours of the night.

Morrison was getting the brunt of it all.

“I’ll talk to him. I will. I promise.” Ken found tears in his co-worker’s eyes more disturbing than the anger whose embers they’d dowsed.

“You better. But…before you do…” Having relieved some of the emotion she’d been carting around all night, the nurse was remembering that, in the end, they were both on team Hotch. “…you should know the direction he’s gone while we’ve been respecting his privacy.”

Ken winced at the implied criticism of his handling of a sullen teen, whose moods obviously had taken their own unexpected direction. “What’s he been doing?”

“Reading everything he could find about abnormal psychology. Everything. And seeing himself around every corner, on every page, following in his father’s footsteps.”

“Oh, God. Hotch…” The doctor’s tone was filled with guilty remorse. Without another word, he turned away, walking with speed to find the boy who was his special responsibility and whom he felt he was failing.

_Like too many other people in his life._

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch’s door was closed.

A knock got no response. Neither did a soft entreaty… “Son? Can I come in?”

“He’s not there.”

Morrison stepped back, turning to see one of the ubiquitous housekeeping carts loaded with towels and bed linens trundling down the hall. “He’s not?”

“Nope. Saw him go out the door behind the kitchen ‘bout twenty minutes ago.” The laundry man tilted his head in the direction Hotch had gone. “Asked me for a few extra towels. Kid works out a lot. Guess he showers a lot, too.”

“Yeah. Probably. Thanks.” _He’s trying to exhaust himself so he can still the demons eating at him. The demons I enabled._

The doctor went to the steel cargo doors where shipments were delivered to the kitchen once a week. Sure enough, they were wide open, a truck backed up to the loading dock. Crates of provisions were being offloaded by a busy crew. High on the platform, Ken stood to one side, shading his eyes, hoping to locate the boy who was lost in spirit, if not in actuality. He scanned the terrain as far as he could see, but rolling hills and a distant tree line didn’t give him a clue as to where Hotch might have gone.

“Dr. Morrison?”

Ken jolted, pulling sun-dazzled eyes back to his immediate surroundings. “Hotch?”

“You looking for me? It’s okay if I’m out here, isn’t it?”

Blinking, the doctor watched one of the bodies unloading boxes separate from the others, coming to stand at the foot of the dock. Aaron looked up at him, open gaze waiting for a response.

“Son, what are you doing?”

The boy looked down at his own sneaker-clad feet and shrugged. “Helping out.”

Hotch didn’t know it, but Morrison’s heart did a little leap of joy. _He’s seeking out company. That’s a huge step forward. I was beginning to think he was going to spend his entire time here locked in his room except when pried out._ Considering Brenda’s scolding, Ken had expected to find Aaron downcast and depressed. This was an unlooked for win out of what had seemed a losing situation.

Still, the fallout from overhearing the doctors in the lounge needed to be addressed.

“ _Is_ it okay if I do this?” Hotch fidgeted, waiting for an answer. “I mean, it doesn’t seem like there are a lot of rules here, so I’m not breaking one, am I?”

Morrison saw his opening. “There’s only one rule I want you to follow, son. You’re not allowed to do anything harmful to yourself.” A wary look came into Aaron’s eye. “And that includes when things upset you. You need to learn to ask for help. You need to realize you’re not alone. You need to speak up instead of keeping everything locked inside.”

Hotch looked away. “Mrs. Franklin told you.”

“Yes. But it’s not as though she was tattling on you. She raked me over the coals the way few people do anymore.” The doctor scuffed one shoe against the concrete flooring. “Called me a ‘numbskull.’” Out of the corner of his eye he saw Hotch studying him with an uneasy expression. “She was right.”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Morrison. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”

“What? No! That’s not the point I…” He broke off with a resigned sigh. “Look, we need to talk. Get some stuff out in the open. What’s your schedule like this afternoon?”

“Got class from one ‘til four.”

“I’ll come by after. We’ll get some things settled.” Ken saw the teen’s look of trepidation. “Well, if we don’t, I’m pretty sure Mrs. Franklin will find a way to ground me or send me to bed without dinner for the rest of my life. Wouldn’t want that, would you?”

He was gratified to see the ghost of a smile touch Hotch’s lips. It was brief and faint and soon gone.

“You’re not in trouble, son. So, I’ll see you this afternoon?”

“Sure.” Aaron sounded leaden.

Ken walked away, but stopped to look back before going through the loading doors. Hotch was back at work, stacking crates of oranges onto a handcart. Watching him for a few minutes, the doctor frowned. He’d been pleased that the boy was inserting himself into a more social milieu, but something was off. The other young men had an easy familiarity among them. Not the camaraderie of friends exactly; more like signs of simple social acceptance.

Hotch on the other hand, looked grim.

_It could be a lot of things. Too many to make misguided guesses._

The doctor shook his head. He’d find out what was troubling the boy when they talked later. Until then, he had work to do.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Morrison showed up at Hotch’s door around four thirty, empty-handed.

He wanted to focus on their discussion without the distraction of snacks. They’d probably eat dinner together later anyway. Sighing, he loosened his tie and took a seat in the desk chair. It had been a long day of recalcitrant children and colleagues. Lots of arguing and snarky remarks. Some, of his own making.

He settled into the chair and reminded himself to shed the small slights and angers of the day. The last thing he wanted was to let them seep into his dealings with this child who didn’t deserve them. But the way Hotch was tracking him from his nest of books on the bed, Ken thought the boy was sensing his murky mood.

Aaron made no effort to hide the nature of his reading material. As a matter of fact, he was perched among the titles with an almost rebellious air. Morrison took a deep breath and waded in.

He pointed his chin toward the books sporting graphic depictions of mental torment. “That’s some pretty heavy reading. What happened to coin collecting? Not interested anymore?”

“This is more important.”

Ken noticed Hotch’s respiration was increasing. A sheen of sweat began to appear on his upper lip. _Poor kid. He knows what’s bothering him, but he’s scared that voicing his fears will somehow make them real._ “Why’s that?”

“This is…this is _me_!” One hand trailed a reluctant path over bindings and pages, as though the subject matter was at once repellant and magnetic.

Morrison strove to keep his voice even and calm. “How do you figure?”

“It’s _me_. I…I don’t feel things like other people. Other people laugh at stuff and I don’t. And I’d rather be alone than hang out with other kids. I don’t like the same stuff they do.” Having committed to baring his own dark side, Hotch hurried to get it all out. “Sometimes I feel like I’m not real. I’ll find out I’ve walked somewhere and I won’t remember doing it. And sometimes I just wanna blow up and hit something or run until…until…I don’t know…until it all goes away.” His voice quavered as his hand swept an all-inclusive arc, indicating the books. “It’s all here. Everything. There’s something wrong with me or I wouldn’t be here. If there was something wrong with my Dad, then I’ve got it, too. I heard you say so. And…and I think I’m…” Hotch’s breathing was coming in gasps. “Dr. Morrison, I’m a sociopath. That’s what I am, isn’t it? Isn’t it? Please tell me. I need to know.”

The pleading look in the boy’s welling eyes made Ken’s shoulders slump and leeched away all the job-related, petty problems he’d been carrying. Here was someone in true pain. Not the trivial annoyances most people spent too much energy collecting and grousing about.

The doctor took a moment to rub both palms over his face, scrubbing the weariness and aggravation away. He leaned as far forward as possible, engaging Hotch in the most direct, open way he knew while still respecting the boy’s personal space. Hugging and cradling were Brenda’s weapons of choice. And they were effective in their own way, as he’d found out when he himself had subjected Hotch to a marathon hug. But Ken felt that right now solid information would be of more comfort than all the loving arms in the world.

“Hotch…son…listen to me.” Morrison could see the faint trembling the boy was struggling to master. He spoke in a slow, measured cadence. “You are not a sociopath…You are not a psychopath…You are not your father…You are not insane…You are a young man who was abused and neglected…You have every right to feel bursts of rage. Your impulse to work it off with physical activity is a healthy, normal one. All adolescents have mildly sociopathic tendencies. They want to be alone. At times they can be veritable hermits. But you were out there working to unload the grocery truck this morning. You were helpful and chose to be among other people, so…”

Hotch interrupted, sounding sad, but determined. “I wasn’t out there because I wanted to be. I was forcing myself. It wasn’t real. I _forced_ myself to be part of a group and I didn’t like it.”

“Because you’re a teenager, Aaron. Not because you’re some kind of mental deviant. There _is_ something wrong with you. You have posttraumatic stress disorder. That’s what’s behind the lapses when you can’t tell how you got from point A to point B. That’s why your emotions might feel muffled or hollow at times. Yes, it is a problem. We’re only just learning about it ourselves, so there’s not a lot of information I can give you, except this: you’re afflicted with it because of the cumulative effect of what you suffered throughout your childhood. Do you get the difference between that and mental illness?”

Morrison aimed his words, hoping they’d penetrate Hotch’s doubts and misconceptions the way armor-piercing bullets would breach a tank. “You have a condition imposed on you from an outside source, Aaron. You do not have an intrinsic defect. You don’t. Can you understand that?”

The teen’s dark eyes were searching Ken’s face. He could feel the boy’s desperate desire to believe, but he didn’t expect to win him over that easily. Hotch was the type who would need time to examine things from multiple angles. He’d need to test and try to disprove before he’d accept the doctor’s reasoning.

Morrison didn’t expect a quick answer.

But he thought it might be time to begin looking for a few of another sort.

“Aaron…Hotch…maybe now would be a good time to begin to talk about things. Like your home. And your family. And school. And…your father. I want to hear whatever you’d like to tell me about him. Think you can do that?”

The doctor frowned. Hotch had pulled back. His face was blank and still. His eyes oddly vacant.

Ken waited for the boy to say something.

It took him a few minutes to realize Hotch was gone. Wandering somewhere where the cumulative experience of being his father’s son had sent him.


	14. Daddy Dearest

Ken Morrison had an adventurous spirit.

It would have served him well had he been born in the 1800s and been able to participate in exploration of uncharted lands. But a century and a half later, the ‘last frontiers’ were either undersea or in the depthless cold of outer space. Neither appealed to him, so Morrison found his brave, new world inside the human mind. Unmapped, undiscovered…The possibility of surprising revelations waiting around every corner.

He had entered the field of psychiatry because it offered unexplored territory.

Not all the surprises were nice.

Like watching a youth fall into the abyss of his past.

Most boys Hotch’s age were poised where they could see their future and begin to forge a path toward life goals. But Aaron was sucked back into the darkness of his father’s creation. Watching the boy’s still features, Ken wondered if the original assessment that all Hotch needed was peace and quiet, might be wrong.

Opting not to rouse the teen from wherever he’d gone, the doctor stood and went to the window. Taking care not to disturb the precise angle to which the blinds had been adjusted, he raised a slat with one finger and looked out on the parking lot where he knew Hotch still dreaded hearing his father’s car. _So he’s still hearing his past and…_ He glanced back at the boy sitting so still among his books. _…and he’s still seeing and maybe even living it, too. It’s only been a few months since he came here, but maybe it’s time to reconsider his status._

Morrison sighed. He would be opening up a whole sticky can of worms, but he wanted to get some feedback from his colleagues on whether or not Hotch needed psychiatric help along with the safe environment they were already providing. _But he’s just plain **not** in the same bailiwick as the other patients here. And putting him with them would be a disservice. He’d be scared and instead of helping him, it would just reinforce all his doubts about his own mental health._

The doctor went back to studying the landscape through the gap in the blinds. Wrapped in his own thoughts, he almost didn’t hear the soft, low voice behind him.

“I don’t want to, Dr. Morrison.”

“What?” Ken swung around, blinking.

“I don’t want to talk about…all that…about my Dad. Please don’t make me.”

The two stared at each other for a moment. Hotch was wondering when the older man had gotten out of his chair and moved to the window.

Morrison was realizing that Aaron had just demonstrated one of the aspects of his PTSD. _He doesn’t know how much time has passed. Fascinating. Terrible…but fascinating._

“I don’t remember stuff that well anyway, so…please don’t make me. I…”

“Shhhhh…no one’s going to force you to do anything, Hotch. I’ll listen if you ever do want to talk about, well…you know. But for now, maybe I’ll do the talking, and you can just listen.”

Hotch nodded, then moved back until he was pressed against the headboard. Pulling his knees up, he folded in on himself, eyes focused on the doctor. Ken took the protective body language into consideration and decided to stay away from personal topics as much as possible. But some were unavoidable.

“Would you like to know more about posttraumatic stress disorder? The hallmarks? The history?”

Hotch shrugged, wariness apparent in every angular line of his body. Ken nodded.

“Okay, then. It’s PTSD for short. It’s always been around, but kind of floated under the radar for long periods of time in the psychiatric profession. It surged back into the limelight during the last few years, mostly because of the Vietnam War…the aftermath effect on the vets.” The doctor paused, wondering if the boy’s grasp of recent history and current events was sufficient to follow along.

“I’m not a vet who’s been dropped in the middle of a jungle.” The simple declaration told Morrison he was.

“No, but we know now that war isn’t the only event that can spawn PTSD.” Ken sighed, recalling all the ills to which humankind could fall prey. “Accidents can cause it. Hell, even people who _witness_ accidents or trauma happening to others can experience it. Sometimes it’s apparent right away. Sometimes it’s a delayed reaction. And I’m talking years passing before anyone realizes something’s gone wrong with them or a friend or a relative. And it can come out in a lot of different ways.”

The doctor thought he saw a glint of interest in Aaron’s eye.

“What it boils down to, Hotch, is it’s a normal reaction to abnormal circumstances. It can be mild, or severe. It can last for weeks, or years, or…” Morrison swallowed. He couldn’t tell what kind of reaction the boy was having, if any. And what came next sounded bleak. “…or it can last a lifetime. Like psychic disabilities that have to be accommodated on a daily basis.”

Hotch licked dry lips, chewing on the bottom one. “I didn’t have an accident and I’m not a vet.”

“But you kind of are, son. You grew up in a warzone. In an abnormal environment. You were victimized. And I’m so sorry it’s affecting you now.”

Morrison couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but there was a qualitative difference in Hotch’s expression, in the musculature of his face. It tightened. It reminded the older man of how an animal’s features seemed to contract before it snarled. Or bit. Or attacked.

“So…so I _am_ crazy. Broken. And maybe forever. That’s what you’re trying to tell me.”

Ken scrubbed a hand over his face. “No. Let me see if I can put this another way.” He moved to the window, once more lifting a single slatted blind and peering out at the parking lot. “Hotch, when you hear your father’s car, do you ever see it when you look outside?”

There was a pause as cautious Hotch examined the question and the implications of each possible answer, even though he had no intention of speaking anything but the truth. It was just his analytical nature.

“No.”

“When do you usually hear it? Any specific time?”

The boy swallowed. Ken could hear his breathing roughen. “In the evening. Sometime around six in the evening.”

“Do you know why that is?”

“That’s when he usually came home…” Hotch’s voice rose, edged with panic. “I said I didn’t want to talk about him!”

“Sorry. Sorry.” Morrison let the blind drop back into place. He walked across the room and took a seat on the edge of the bed, heart clenching when he saw the slight recoil in Hotch when the older man came close. “Breathe. Nice and slow and deep. You don’t need to say anymore, but I have to. For your own good.”

“No!” Aaron’s voice came out strangled, but he managed to put some force behind it. “That’s what _he_ used to say. It was _all_ for my own good. So…so I’d appreciate what I had…so I’d appreciate _him_ …so I…so I…”

“He’s not here, Hotch! He can’t hurt you unless you let him!”

“What?” The boy was verging on hyperventilation, breath coming in hard-won gasps. Despite his agitation, he railed at what he considered a complete misconception on the doctor’s part. “ _Let_ him? I never _let_ him! I couldn’t _stop_ him!”

“Well then it wasn’t your fault, was it…?”

Not reaching out to hug Hotch took every ounce of Morrison’s will. He sat by, watching the boy’s anger stutter to a stop under the weight of conflicting emotions and challenged perceptions.

_He’s always secretly thought it was his doing…that he deserved what he got. But now he’s remembering all he did to get away and make it stop. Problem is, he’ll likely still carry a measure of self-incrimination for…well, maybe for **ever**. He’ll play that deadly, endless game of ‘what if.’ ‘What if I’d done something differently?’ ‘What if I’d gone right instead of left?’ ‘What if I’d gotten better grades?’ It’ll go on and on and on. And it’ll always be things **he** could’ve done differently. So maybe, while his guard is down, I can sway the odds in his favor…_

“It wasn’t you, Aaron. Just the way everything in _these_ …” Ken gave the open cover of one book a dismissive flick, flipping it closed. “…isn’t about you. It’s about your father. It works like a kind of co-dependency. He could only feel bigger by beating you down smaller. And you wanted what any kid does: to be loved by your parents and to make them proud.”

The doctor leaned close, but still careful not to touch. He wanted his words to take center stage, not the possible shock of physical intrusion. “The only way you could make that man happy was to let him hurt you. In truth, you didn’t have much choice. You were a little kid with no place to go and no one to turn to. You _had_ to stay and let him keep torturing you. Patterns form very quickly for the human animal, Hotch. You’re still following the one he imposed on you…imprinted on you…carved into you…without…your…permission. And what’s worse…without your knowledge.”

Aaron couldn’t control the trembling of his hands as he buried his face in them. “But then there’s no _reason_ for what he did! There _has_ to be a reason!”

Morrison’s voice was low, filled with sorrow for this blameless young man. “I can’t give you a reason, son. He took the answers with him when he died. It’s mental illness. Irrational until you delve into it. Into him. And find the patterns or the congenital predisposition from which he suffered. But he’s gone. We can’t do that. What we _can_ do is ease you out from under that template, that pattern of abuse and acceptance of abuse that he wove around you. It takes time, but…”

“How do you know I’m not gonna turn out like him? You just said ‘congenital.’ That’s not something I have control over. And I heard you guys talking. It does get passed on. How do you know?”

The doctor heaved a great sigh. “Because it’s my specialty. I don’t see that kind of illness in you. If you want, I can let some of the others here talk to you and get a second opinion…hell, I can get you a third and a fourth opinion, too. And maybe that would help us find ways to break you free of your father’s influence. Maybe his car would stop driving by. Would you like that?”

Hotch’s trembling had quieted a little. It was now more shiver than quake.

“I hear his voice sometimes. Like he’s still telling me everything that’s wrong with me.” Aaron drew in a long, shaky breath. “It can make me really angry like when I threw him out of our house. Scared, too. If he’s in my head like that, I can’t be normal.” Eyes brimming with torment fastened on Morrison’s, begging for relief in the form of reassurance or even condemnation. As long as there was an end to fear and doubt. As long as something dependable and certain could come out of it, whether for good or ill. But an end. An end to the suffering that had gnawed away his childhood.

“Normal reaction to _ab_ normal circumstance,” the doctor repeated. “ _Normal_ reaction.” Hotch’s eye shifted back and forth, searching. “ _Normal_ reaction.” Ken would say it as many times as necessary.

“You’re sure?”

The doctor gave a curt, definitive nod. “Positive. You’re not crazy, son.”

Aaron studied the man before him for a few more beats. Unfolding himself from where he huddled against the headboard, he closed the few inches between them.

Morrison’s arms went around the shivering shoulders,  pulling the boy in close. _He’s asking for comfort. That’s another big step…not assuming he has to go it alone._ He tightened his hold. _Atta boy, Hotch. Good for you._

The doctor might not have felt so optimistic if he’d known Hotch had moved in so Ken wouldn’t see his face. He was trying very hard to cry as quietly as possible.

And right then a hug was the only hiding place he could find.


	15. Birthday

Hotch bolted upright, sweat beading his body.

_Get out of my head, Dad. **Get**. **Out**._

Street-glow through the carefully louvered blinds painted his room with shadows. His own harsh breathing roared in his ears. He let his head fall back, giving in to the gut-clench of an incipient sob. Then muffling the sob out of habit.

_Mustn’t let anyone hear…Or he’ll come… **Get out, Dad. Get. Out!**_

It took no effort to recall the dream. It was an old, familiar, dreadful companion. Like a dragon curled in the depths of his psyche, it smoldered unseen, only rampaging forth in the dead of night when its prey was at his most vulnerable. Unguarded by the strict discipline of the conscious mind.

Hotch could almost smell the rank odor of the beast’s smoky breath.

**_Get. Out. NOW!_ **

He panted, listening to the quiet sounds of the Center at midnight.

After a while his chest loosened enough for him to draw in a deep, cleansing breath. But still, the taint of smoke, of Daddy. He slid back down to lie flat on his back. Staring at the featureless ceiling, he shivered.

 _And this is normal, Dr. Morrison?_ Huffing out a cynical grunt, Hotch turned on his side. _Yeah. Right. This is how **everyone** sleeps._

Holding onto his pillow like an anchor, he closed his eyes and gave himself up to whatever else the night would bring.

At least it was familiar territory.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Are you sure this is the right place for the boy?”

The Chief Administrator fixed his subordinate with calculating regard. “Are you sure he’s getting the help he needs by living on the fringes of an institution that’s scrabbling to define its own place in the psychiatric scheme of things?”

“No!” Morrison’s honest frustration propelled him out of his chair. He paced before the Chief’s desk like a caged animal. “I’m not sure of anything! None of us are. This is all just one giant crapshoot, if we’re being honest. We might have the best of intentions, but we’re just applying experimental paradigms to these kids. It’s all educated guesswork. There’s no surety in what we do. You _know_ that.”

The Chief watched one of his brightest, most passionate colleagues continue to wear a groove in the carpet. “Then let me ask you this, Ken…Why is this boy so important to you? Are you getting too close? Why this one? You’ve never met him before. He’s a complete stranger. But from the start you’ve been pushing his cause. Why?”

The question stopped Morrison in his tracks. So used to analyzing and questioning all day long in his job, he rarely gave the same consideration to his own actions. He operated on instinct which he believed to be the subconscious accumulation and interpretation of thousands of miniscule observations. He ‘read’ his patients. Reading himself was another matter.

After a moment he turned an earnest face to his boss. “Because I know all the bad things that can happen to people’s minds. And just once I’d like proof that what we’re doing helps. And Aaron is borderline right now. If we can’t push him back to the sunny side of the street, what do we hope to accomplish with the others? The ones who’ve crossed over into the black…” He felt his throat tighten. “…We’ll lose them. I need to know that we’re on the right track. This isn’t a lab with subjects. These are people’s sons and daughters. And someday they might be raising their own children. So what we’re doing here might send ripples that won’t stop for generations.”

Belatedly, he glanced at the Chief’s office door and breathed a sigh of relief to see it was closed. He didn’t want to make the same mistake twice, expounding on theories that Hotch might overhear and take to heart. And he really didn’t want Brenda to yell at him again. At least not for the same offense.

The Administrator leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over a comfortable paunch. “Ken, you might as well accept right now that as long as psychiatry is your field, you’ll be working half-blind. What works for one patient, won’t necessarily work for another with the same diagnosis.” He picked up a pencil, toying with it as he mused. “The brain is biological Chaos Theory in action. We can quantify to a certain extent, but empirical science takes a nosedive when it steps into our arena more than most. That’s part of why I like this job. It’s also part of what makes it hell.”

He put the pencil down, giving Morrison his full attention. “We need to take the long view. There’s probably never going to be a one-size-fits-all cure for any of the ills we deal with here. But it’s my personal belief that we can make a lot of headway, even if it’s trial-and-error treatment. I know you don’t want to hear this, but even if we lose a patient, we can still use that failure to help someone else. So don’t think in terms of absolutes.”

Ken ran a hand over his face. “I understand. I really do. But I have to believe we can do some good right here, right now. Not only sometime down the line.”

“We can. What I’m saying is, if you can’t ‘cure’ the Hotchner boy, then know that you’ve probably pulled him back from something worse. And maybe you’ve even given him some tools that’ll help him in the future. But, Ken…” The Chief’s voice took on a somber tone. “…don’t push him to be what he’s not: either sicker or completely cured. Just let him be what he is, and let him travel his own path at his own speed. Don’t lead him. Or follow him. Guide with a very careful touch. Got it?”

Morrison wasn’t quite ready to concede the discussion. “So what did you mean when you asked if this is the right place for him? Where do you think he should be?”

“Home.” The Chief Administrator saw Ken start to bristle. “I’m not saying ship him out tonight. But remember, the longer you keep him, the harder it’ll be for him to reintegrate with his peers and his family.”

“Kid doesn’t have much in the way of either,” Morrison grumbled.

“He’s caught his breath here, Doctor. He’s not healed by any means, but he might never be. He’s smart and personable even though he’s not trying to be. You said yourself right from the start that he’s not the same as the children who really do need institutionalization. He’ll manage. He needs to be where he’s going to make his life. And that’s not here.”

Ken stared at his superior, feeling a deep foreboding begin to blossom in his gut.

Taking a deep breath, the Chief leaned over his desk and resumed the paperwork that took up a good deal of his day. “Don’t make a pet of him, Ken. Think about sending him back to his home and segueing him into his school again. After the holidays…after the mid-winter break most schools take…that might be a good time. Take care of him now, but plan how you guide him with an eye toward sending him home next January.”

Morrison’s nature was to argue, but there was too much that hit home in the Administrator’s words. He _was_ getting attached to Hotch. He liked the boy. He was looking forward to taking him on a skiing vacation at Christmas. That wasn’t something a doctor did with a patent. It was what an uncle or a big brother would do.

Sighing, Ken turned toward the door.

He had a lot to think about.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch’s birthday dawned a bright, achingly sunny November day.

Cards and a package had arrived from Bluefields. One was an ornate, flowery piece that waxed poetic about how much mothers love their sons. The short, handwritten note from Mrs. Hotchner was as generic and fanciful as the verse, saying how proud she was that he’d managed to get into such a fine boarding school. Confused about his status and still plagued by episodes of fog, the teen blinked at it and set it aside.

The second card was a cartoon dog ‘woofing’ Hotch a happy birthday. The childish scrawl inside said Sean missed him and loved him. It was signed ‘Sprout,’ which made Aaron smile. His little brother hated the nickname. Using it was a concession to his older sibling’s superior rank by virtue of now having attained the ripe age of eighteen.

The package contained a sweater, some socks, small containers of candies and cookies. The treats made Hotch’s stomach clench. They reminded him of the times his mother would sneak him food, risking and sometimes suffering her husband’s wrath. In fact, the whole in-honor-of-your-birthday thing made him anxious for the same reason. It was better to fly under the radar at all times. If you wanted to survive, you didn’t surface to celebrate the day you came into a world that didn’t want you.

Intellectually, Hotch knew he wasn’t in that same world anymore. But for years every bruise and break had ingrained in him that the equation for staying alive involved concealing one’s existence.

So when Morrison showed up with a grin and an offer to take Hotch out wherever he wanted to go after they’d taken care of getting his driver’s license, the doctor wasn’t met with unbridled enthusiasm. He watched the boy slip on a jacket against the chill and lock the door to his room as they left. As they walked out toward the parking lot, Ken leaned in and gave Hotch’s shoulder a light, friendly bump with his own.

“I know this is hard for you, son, even if I don’t know exactly what you’re feeling or thinking.”

Hotch nodded, and kept walking, head down, studying the ground. The doctor tried again.

“I meant it when I said we can go anywhere you want…do anything. Don’t think it has to be someplace noisy or crowded, okay?”

Hotch’s steps faltered, then stopped. “You mean that? Really?”

“Absolutely. And if you want me to stay out of your way, I can do that, too.”

Aaron looked up and into the doctor’s eyes, unflinching, for several beats. “I know you’re being nice to me, Dr. Morrison. Nicer than anyone I can remember. I don’t mean to be…” The corners of his mouth turned down. He swallowed an unpleasant lump in his throat and decided to cut to the chase before he did something dumb like cry again. “Thank you. Just…thank you.”

As they resumed walking, Ken draped a gentle arm across Hotch’s shoulders. “You’re welcome. Now, let’s go take that driver’s test.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Three hours later, after having passed both the written and behind-the-wheel tests, a man who looked as though he’d eaten bad clams for lunch shoved a paper across a countertop toward Hotch. “Here’s your temp. Should get your license in the mail next week. Call us if you don’t have it by the end of the month…Next!”

Hotch took the flimsy black-and-white, printed replica of what his permanent license would look like over to where Morrison had been waiting…and waiting…and waiting. The doctor looked over his shoulder as both of them gazed at this symbol of a rite of passage most people had taken at age sixteen.

“Good picture.” Ken acknowledged a photogenic quality neither of them had known Aaron possessed. “And now that it’s official…where do you wanna go?”

Hotch didn’t take long to answer. “Out of town. Someplace with woods and no people. Someplace quiet where you can’t hear traffic or…anything…” He gave the older man an anxious look. “Is that okay?”

“Sure. Sure. But…” Morrison reached a hand out dangling his car keys. “…you’re driving.”

Hotch’s small, almost secret smile as he took them gave the doctor hope that the day would end on a cheerful note.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Miles from town, halfway down a hiking trail, Ken hung back and let Aaron have the experience of solitude that he seemed to want.

The doctor felt as though he were observing a wild animal in its natural habitat. He watched Hotch face into the breeze, eyes closed, as though sampling scents carried on air currents.

_Or maybe he’s feeling the freedom of wind in his hair. Or maybe it’s a rare sensation for him to be able to stand tall with eyes shut and not have to worry about someone hitting him. Or maybe he’s just a young, healthy animal who needs to feel he’s part of nature and belongs somewhere…has a right to be alive…_

After approximately an hour, Hotch came back to where Morrison waited. The older man smiled. “Ready to go? If you want to stay longer, you can. I’m fine with it.”

“No, that’s okay.” Hotch’s whole demeanor was less constricted, more open and relaxed. He gazed toward the heart of the forest. “Now I know where it is, I can always come back.”

“Let me know when you do, though. And be careful if you come here alone. Mother Nature can be pretty unforgiving.”

Hotch nodded, a faint smile tracing its way across his lips. It was nice to have someone worry about him in a fatherly way.

“So.” Ken’s voice rose, breaking the spell of the wilderness. “Pizza?”

“Yeah. That’d be great.”

They walked back toward the car in companionable silence. As they resumed their respective seats with Hotch behind the wheel, the doctor glanced at him. “It’s not over yet, but how’s the birthday so far?”

A few beats passed. Hotch didn’t move. Ken realized the teen was trying to master strong emotion.

“Dr. Morrison, this has meant a lot to me. This has been the best birthday I can remember.” Hotch turned full eyes toward his passenger. “Thank you. I’ll never forget it.”

“You’re welcome, son.” _But I hope it’s overwritten in years to come with others so happy they’ll make this one pale in comparison._

It never was. As a grown man, whenever he could, Hotch would ignore the date of his birth.


	16. The Runner...Stops...

Brenda Franklin had a way of encouraging people to confide in her.

Maybe it was her matronly, comforting aspect. Or maybe the easy, natural way she could talk to anyone, regardless of background or circumstances. So the housekeeping staff didn’t think twice about divulging information when she asked about the state of Hotch’s room.

The nurse usually found the boy’s door closed for the night during her shift. It was hit-or-miss running into him. When she did, it was usually in the hallways or kitchen after hours. She knew the delicate balance involved in letting Aaron keep his room sacrosanct. It was his haven and she didn’t want to be perceived as an invader. Still…she wanted to know…

“Neat as a pin. Kind of cluttered with books, but we don’t need to do much more than change the linens and towels and vacuum once in a while. Wish the rest would take after him. Whoever raised that kid, did it right.”

Brenda winced at the misconception, but didn’t bother to correct it. “But what about personal items? Mementos? Pictures? Anything like that?”

“Nope. Not much to dust.” It was said with a satisfied air, and could be excused, considering several of the _bona fide_ patients at the Center scrawled epithets on their walls and left intentional messes as they rebelled against every aspect of the treatment they considered to be incarceration.

The other thing about the nurse was that she had an extraordinary memory when it came to people for whom she cared. And she cared very much indeed about the quiet, polite, young man who was, in housekeeping’s words, ‘no trouble at all.’ Brenda could still feel the fragile ribs heaving in sobs that first night when she’d been convinced that Aaron was homesick and frightened and so in need of a mother’s arms. She also recalled thinking he needed some reminders of home and of the people who would still be part of his life once he returned.

She’d thought by now he’d have asked for pictures or personal belongings to be sent to him. In truth, she didn’t know if he had, but the fact that housekeeping said his surroundings were rather sterile when it came to that sort of thing made her wonder if she should give a little push. But not to the boy. He was finding his emotional balance and even the gentlest nudge might be unwelcome. Brenda acknowledged that she could be a nosy, meddlesome woman, but she trusted her instincts. Hotch needed a touch of something good from home. So that he could begin to think of home…as good.

So she pushed his mother.

The week before Hotch’s birthday, Brenda pulled the boy’s file and settled in at her desk.

 _Melda-Lynn Maribelle Hotchner._ The nurse grimaced. There was a certain segment of Southern aristocracy that specialized in giving their offspring customized names. She had thought they were oddly affectionate nicknames when she’d first encountered them. But now, she likened the trend to the naming of thoroughbred horses. Your everyday pony was Blaze or Shadow. But the horse on a higher rung was Renault’s Flying Wind or Gregson’s Caught In The Rain. It set her teeth on edge.

It made her glad that Aaron had a nice, simple name. _At least he didn’t fall into that particular crevice of his culture._

Setting aside preconceived notions, Brenda dialed the Hotchner household.

And down the rabbit hole she went.

“A gracious good evening. To whom am I speaking?”

The nurse blinked. It wasn’t just the frilly way of saying ‘Hello.’ It was the breathy cadence that reminded her of _Gone With the Wind_ ’s Scarlett O’Hara at her most syrupy. Brenda couldn’t reconcile the image of somber, introverted Hotch with being related to the voice at the other end of the line. However, it didn’t take too much of a leap to see the Southern gentleman within the boy. But there was nothing sweetly false about him. Mrs. Hotchner…not so much.

“Good evening. Mrs. Hotchner?”

“Why, yes. Yes, it is. And I have the pleasure of speaking with…?”

“Brenda Franklin. I’m a nurse at the Behavioral Center for Children and Adolescents…where your son Aaron is staying.”

“Oh, my goodness, yes, of course. Is he alright?”

The nurse was encouraged by the frisson of genuine concern underlying Mrs. Hotchner’s words. “Yes, he’s doing just fine…”

“Oh, well, that’s a relief. You’re the school nurse, so I suppose you’ve realized that child is always getting into scrapes of one sort or another.” A light, coquettish giggle infused her voice. “He was always bruising this, or breaking that…but, you know boys: that’s just how they are.”

Brenda felt a sick suspicion she was discovering that what Ken had termed ‘an indifferent mother’ could more accurately be described as ‘delusional’ or ‘divorced from reality.’ She reminded herself of her reason for calling. “I was wondering if you could send Aaron some things to make his room a little more homey. You know…any keepsakes or possessions that are special to him? Oh…and I know he’d appreciate a photo or two of you and his brother? I don’t mean to be intrusive, but do you think you could put together something like that…maybe for his birthday next week?”

Another breezy, little laugh came down the line. “I’ve forgotten how bare dorm rooms can be. You know, I matriculated at Mary Baldwin College. Took me all first semester to make my room look like home. So, yes, I’ll be happy to do that, although…” For the first time Brenda heard a touch of bewilderment. “…although I don’t think there’s much here that…Aaron…would…want…”

“Then maybe you could just send a photo? Something to remind him that there are people who miss him and think about him?”

“Yes. Yes, of course…yes…yes…I’ll do that…of course…yes…”

The line went dead. Hotch’s mother had hung up.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Brenda hadn’t held out much hope that Mrs. Hotchner would follow through, so she was pleasantly surprised when packages arrived from Bluefields. One was addressed to ‘The School Nurse’ instead of Hotch.

Curious, Brenda opened it.

She was glad she did.

The contents consisted mainly of first aid supplies. The nurse’s stomach did a sick, little flip. Somewhere in the addled brain of Aaron’s mother, the connection had gone awry. She equated reminders from home as things associated with her son’s survival in the aftermath of his father’s abuse. Sympathetic tears welling, Brenda unpacked bandages and compresses.

At the very bottom, carefully padded, was the one thing she felt she _could_ pass on to Hotch.

Inside a simple wood frame was a school portrait of what she supposed was Aaron’s little brother. His gap-toothed grin was infectious. The nurse smiled through her tears. Scrawled across the bottom of the photo in a rainbow of markers was ‘I love Aaron.’

Brenda let her fingers rest against the words for a moment. **_This_** _is what that child needs. Not the reminders of all he suffered when his father was around._

Shaking her head, she wondered about the workings of the mother’s mind. Somewhere in the magnolia-drenched, wistful fantasy that characterized Mrs. Hotchner’s thoughts lurked the knowledge that her eldest son not only had been hurt, but might still be in need of remedies, symbolized by the first aid supplies. The woman wasn’t entirely wrong. It was difficult to judge her, so Brenda decided not to, concentrating on helping Aaron instead.

She had given a sidelong look to the other package, but since it was addressed to Hotch, she swallowed her anxiety about what it might contain and decided she’d come in early on the boy’s birthday to give him the framed photo and to see if he needed a good, long hug, depending on what else his mother had sent him.

 

xxxxxxx

 

By the time Hotch and Ken returned to the Center, it was evening.

Between other duties, Brenda was keeping watch. She breathed a sigh of relief that the birthday boy looked more serene and contented than she had seen him so far. Judging by his expression, the nurse dared to hope that the package addressed to Aaron hadn’t contained anything disturbing.

She swooped in on him, planting a heartfelt, maternal kiss on each cheek. “Happy birthday, Aaron. Did you two have a good time celebrating?”

“Show her.” Morrison nudged the boy with a gentle elbow to his side.

The personification of bashful pride, Hotch pulled his temporary driver’s license out and extended it on open palm toward Brenda.

“O-h-h-h-h, Aaron.” Sounding appropriately impressed, the nurse picked it up and gave it the attention it deserved. “Congratulations. And, my goodness…” She peered at the photo. “…you are growing into such a handsome, young man.” She passed the license back to its owner. “Mark my word, Ken…it’s going to be a very lucky young lady who winds up on his arm.”

“Y-e-a-h…y-e-a-h…” The doctor gave an exaggerated stretch. “But he’s gonna play the field for a while first, Bren. Prob’ly gonna _own_ the field, too.”

Rose-tinted cheeks furiously broadcasting his mortification, Hotch tried to cover by tucking his license back into his wallet. The nurse took pity on him.

“Don’t pay any attention to us, Aaron. We’re just a couple of old has-beens who’re wishing we could do it all again when we see someone who’s got his whole life laid out before him. And I didn’t come here to embarrass you. I brought you this…” Reaching into the large inside pocket of her scrubs, Brenda brought forth the framed photo of Sean. Reluctant for Hotch to see the original package, she had wrapped and ribboned it on her own. “From your mother and brother.”

With care, and a little trepidation, Hotch tore away the paper. When he saw Sean’s face grinning up at him, a slow, steady smile graced his own. But as the adults watched, it gradually faded.

“What’s the matter, son?” Morrison glanced from the framed photo to Hotch and back.

“Nothing.” He gave both grown-ups a polite nod. “I’m just tired.”

“Okay…alright…” Ken tamped down his misgivings stirring just beneath the surface. He roughed a hand through the teen’s unruly hair. “Get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Brenda blinked, but followed the doctor’s example…although she chose to smooth the cowlicks standing at military attention, rather than alarm them further. “Happy birthday, Aaron. Good night. Sleep well.”

Hotch hesitated at his door. “Thank you, Dr. Morrison…Mrs. Franklin…I had a good day. Really. I won’t forget.” The last words were said almost fiercely; more like a promise to himself than a courtesy to the adults.

Aaron slipped into his room and closed the door, hearing the latch engage with a soft click.

He propped the most important trophies of the day, his driver’s license and Sean’s photo, where he could see them when he stretched out on the bed. Once settled in for the night, he stared at his little brother’s eyes, trying to see if they held any of the phantoms that haunted his own.

He couldn’t tell. The flat, two-dimensional representation remained inscrutable. Hotch fell asleep and dreamt of home.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Around midnight, once again, Hotch bolted upright, sweating.

Heavy, labored breathing harsh in his ears, he stumbled from bed to bathroom. After splashing his face with icy water, he had to admit that sleep was a distant improbability at best.

Unable to rest, the boy slipped into his sweats. Pocketing his keys, he left the Center. Outdoors, the velvety-black sky littered with stars like points of crystal fire restored some of his calm. But not enough.

Hotch began to run.

Limbs pumping, heart racing, he tried to burn off energy, memories, the past, the future…everything other than the immediate present of his body’s effort.

Hours later, he found himself miles away, in the silent darkness lit by intermittent streetlights. He finally gasped to a stop. Sweating and exhausted, facing a long trek back, anger began to fulminate, displacing the familiar dream-fright.

_I’m still running. In my dreams. And now. I’m still running. It has to stop. **I** have to stop._

At a plodding pace, Hotch set a course back toward the Center.

 _Enough. I’m sick of this. I’m sick **from** it. _ He felt his shoulders hunch and his teeth grit with determination. _You’re not gonna win, Dad. I’m gonna tell all your secrets. The next chance I get, I’m gonna tell Dr. Morrison everything._

_And then…you’ll be dead. For good. Forever._

_Or at least, you won’t be able to touch Sean. You won't be part of our family anymore._

_Not through me, anyway._


	17. Dream a Little Dream of Me...

When Ken Morrison had chosen to go into child and adolescent psychiatry, he thought the hardest part would be seeing damaged youngsters.

It wasn’t.

The hardest part was pulling the reins in on himself. He wanted to pick up each one and forcibly turn  each head in the direction he knew it should look to find the way out of the mind’s jungle. Instead, he had to hold his position, watching the children stumble and fall and scramble backwards instead of forwards. _The path is useless unless they blaze it themselves._

It was like following someone else’s car to a destination. You concentrated on the bumper in front of you, rather than the street signs. At the end of the journey, you might be in the right place, but you couldn’t find it again on your own, should the need arise.

And the need always arose.

So Ken gritted his teeth and held his tongue and extended his hand in support, but never used it to smash down the obstacles in the way. It was hard for a man who genuinely liked children. The older he got, the more strongly his paternal instinct cried out to do more than point the way.

The morning after Hotch’s birthday the doctor’s ability to stand aside was sorely tested.

He’d turned the corner onto the hallway that led to his office only to see Aaron sitting on the floor, back pressed up against his door, long, jean-clad legs stretched before him.

“Hotch?” The doctor’s tone was filled with wary concern. “What’s up?” The large, sorrowful eyes looking up at him had purple smudges beneath them. After such a wonderful time the day before, clearly the boy hadn’t slept at all. “What’s wrong, son?”

“I need to talk to you.” Hotch’s eyes darted away, already regretting opening up even that much. “But if you’re busy , if you’ve got other stuff you have to do…it can wait.” He struggled to his feet, ready to beat a hasty retreat.

Morrison’s grip on his upper arm stopped the boy from fleeing.

“I’ve got time. Let’s sit down.” The doctor unlocked his office, ushering Hotch through the door first. It was a thinly veiled strategy to keep the teen from bolting. Ken peered at Aaron’s closed body language: arms crossed so far, he was almost hugging himself. _And he probably needs one right now._ “Have you had breakfast, son?”

“Not hungry.”

“Hmmmm.” Morrison removed his coat, unpacked his briefcase; all the while keeping a surreptitious eye trained on Hotch. “Close the door, please.” It would afford them some privacy, but mostly, it would cut off the avenue of escape. _And he’s a flight risk if I’ve ever seen one._

Once the office door was securely shut…“Have a seat.” The doctor’s gesture included chairs and a small sofa.

Hotch edged his way to the chair farthest from where Morrison stood at his desk. Used to the tricks of avoidance, the older man stepped around and pulled another chair directly in front of the one his visitor had taken. “Now, what’s been going on with you since we said goodnight yesterday?”

Ken watched the boy shrug, chewing on his lip, eyes downcast. After a while, he stated the obvious. “Looks like you didn’t sleep much.”

Hotch shook his head. Some more lip-chewing, and then… “Keep dreaming. Same one. All the time.”

“I see.” The doctor could tell this would be a conversation interspersed with lots of long pauses. “So I take it, it’s a bad dream?” A slow nod was the only response. Ken continued to state the obvious, trailing the words like a baited line, hoping the boy would bite. “So I guess you could call it a nightmare?”

“Yeah.” Hotch risked a brief glance, checking for censure, but finding only a blank slate in the doctor’s expression. “Kind of stupid, huh…?”

“No.” Morrison’s voice was low and calm. “Why would you think bad dreams are stupid?”

“ ‘Cause little kids have nightmares. And wake up crying and…stuff…”

“That’s true. They do. But big kids have them, too. So do adults. So do senior citizens. In fact, everyone with a brain has them at some point.”

“Do _you_?” At last Hotch made prolonged eye contact.

“Yes.” Ken let Aaron study him, looking for signs of subterfuge. _If what Swinburn told me is true, a whole town of medical professionals ignored this boy’s plight. No wonder he’s got some trust issues._

“What about?” Hotch was probing deeper, seeking proof this wasn’t some trick intended to get him to open up and reveal the broken freakishness inside.

The doctor sighed. “Mostly about things slipping away. I keep grabbing at them and trying to hold on, but…no matter what I do, they slip away and I lose them.”

Hotch’s eyes widened. Ken could see his Adam’s apple bob with distress. “Mine’s kind of the opposite.”

“How d’you mean?”

“I…I’m trying to get away and keep, uh…keep getting pulled back. I just…I can’t…” Averting his eyes once again, Aaron shivered, making Morrison want to wrap him up in something safe and warm; something that would make him invisible to all the monsters. “I’m just not strong enough to get away,” he finished in a miserable, almost-whimper.

“Do you know what you’re trying to get away from?”

The boy took a deep breath, bracing himself. “Not ‘what.’ Who.”

Hotch fell silent. Ken knew who was taking center stage in the boy’s dreams. It was one of those times when he had to stamp down on his impulse to help by blurting out the answer himself. In quiet words he tried to create a safe place for Aaron to free himself from dream-claws, dream-clutches.

“Can you see who it is?”

Hotch’s convulsive swallow was audible. “Can’t take time to look back. If you do stuff like that, you’ll get caught.”

It was Morrison’s turn to chew on his lip as he considered making a cruel observation. “But you can’t escape anyway. So what difference does it make?” He heard the boy’s breath catch in his throat; saw him tremble, his chest laboring to draw sufficient oxygen.

“I…I never thought of it like that.” With a masterful effort that made the doctor proud of him, Hotch closed his eyes, drew himself up, and forced breath past his taut muscles. When he’d managed a few deep breaths, he fixed Ken with suspicious regard. “You already know who it is, don’t you.” Statement, not question.

“Maybe. But I won’t know for sure until you tell me.” It wasn’t really a lie. It moved things along in the direction the doctor wanted. “Tell me your dream, son.”

“Our house…it was…is…really big. A mansion.” Hotch’s breath continued to shudder every few exhalations. “When you’re a little kid, it’s _really_ big. Like a maze. Which can be good, too,” he hurried to add, giving Ken an earnest look, as though assuring him that not everything was bad about his origins. He destroyed that impression with his next sentence. “Lots of places to hide, you know?”

Morrison nodded, maintaining a noncommittal expression. “You dream about the house?”

“About running through it. But no matter where I go I’m never fast enough or…or strong enough. And I can hear him laughing behind me. Getting closer and closer and it’s like I’m in slow motion, but he’s not. And…” Hotch’s voice cracked. “…and he tells me what he’s gonna do to me. And…and…”

“Steady, son.”

Aaron sucked in a huge draught of air, expelling it in a long, slow stream. “And I’ll get to someplace narrow where I have to crawl. If I can get far enough through, he won’t be able to reach me. But…” Despite his best efforts, the boy was losing control of his breathing. Gasping out each phrase. “…but he always does. I can feel his hand grab my ankle and start pulling me back. And…that’s…that’s when I wake up.”

Morrison was about to speak, but caught himself as Hotch went slightly glassy-eyed. It was the look he’d had when he’d first arrived at the Center…when Ken hadn’t been sure the boy was quite aware of his surroundings.

“But the thing is…a lot of times I’d wake up and he’d be there. And it’d be real. And I can still feel him grabbing me. And I know he’s gone. Dead. But he’s still here. And it’s like he’s pulling me down into the grave with him.” Hotch leaned over, burying his face in his hands, muffling his shaking voice. “He’s in my head, Dr. Morrison. I know he’s dead, but I can hear him and…and feel him. Smell him…”

Aaron’s final words descended into the softest, most heartbroken wail Ken had ever had the misfortune to hear.

“He’s still chasing me. And there’s nowhere left to ru-u-un…”


	18. A Rock and a Hard Place

Ken saw Hotch verging on hyperventilation.

He went to the boy. Standing behind him, the doctor used a sure, firm touch, running his hands over Aaron’s bent back from shoulders to waist and back again, hoping he could make himself heard over the harsh, convulsive gasping.

“Breathe, son. B-r-e-a-t-h-e…” There was no release in the tight muscles. Morrison gritted his teeth. He thought of himself as a peaceful man, having come of age in the 60s and 70s. He’d embraced the love-child philosophy of ‘live and let live.’ But at times like this, Ken thought the edge of violence was so, so close. If he’d had this young man’s father before him, he’d have happily pummeled him until his own hands were broken and scraped bloody.

As it was, the doctor kept those hands steady, applying pressure that he hoped would be perceived as a friendly force; hoped would penetrate the panic wracking the younger Hotchner’s body thanks to the older’s treatment.

“Breathe…Breathe…” Morrison’s voice adopted a melodic cadence. “He can’t hurt you. He can’t reach you. You’re safe. He’s gone. Can’t hurt you…Breathe…Breathe…”

At long last, shuddering decreased to trembling; gasping stepped down to panting.

Leery of imposing his physical presence on someone slighter and younger who probably was almost preternaturally aware of his own vulnerability, Ken backed away, letting only the fingers of one hand linger on Hotch’s shoulder. He went down on one knee in front of the still-bent figure, waiting…patient… When one final, long-drawn breath was followed by a visible collapse of the tension in Aaron’s torso, the doctor transferred his light touch to the teen’s chin, coaxing eye contact.

“So. How’re we doing? Need a few more minutes?”

Hotch nodded, but kept his eyes focused on the floor even as he straightened in his chair. “I’m okay…I’m okay…I’m…” The mantra faded out. It hadn’t been very convincing in the first place.

“Take your time. Breathe…”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’ll let you get away with the ‘sorry’ thing when you actually do something wrong, son. So, this time?...There’s nothing to be sorry for. So, apology _not_ accepted.”

For a moment as Hotch bent forward once more, shoulders shaking, Morrison regretted his words, thinking he’d somehow triggered a fit of sobbing. Then, he realized that wasn’t the case. Aaron was chuckling in a weak, ragged way. He sat up again, fixing the doctor with a gaunt, tired regard.

“I guess I should know that by now.” He had a hazy recollection of Mrs. Franklin taking issue with his penchant for apologizing, too.

Ken watched Hotch pull himself together a little more. The boy’s remark was cryptic, but there were more important topics to pursue. “I’d say that dream has way too much power over you.”

“Yeah…” He hadn’t quite caught his breath yet. “…I know…”

“And you’re right: there’s nowhere left to run.” Morrison ignored the flash of instinctive fear in Hotch’s eyes. “You can’t run away from  yourself. You shouldn’t need to. And that’s where the problem is. That’s what I mean by giving someone permission to hurt you. I know it’s not an easy thing to do…changing what seems to be hardwired into your psyche, but that’s what we have to work on to make sure you’re strong enough to stand on your own when you go back home.”

“Home? I’m going home?”

“Eventually, of course you’ll go home.” Ken looked a little closer. “Don’t you want to graduate with your class? See that girl…Haley, was it?”

“So you think I’ll be okay…fixed…in time for graduation?”

The doctor took a long, hard look at the mixture of hope and suspicion playing across the boy’s features. He used the few moments it took him to resume his seat to assess Hotch’s doubts.

_Why is it so hard to reassure this kid? I’ve told him he’s not crazy; he just needs a little time to rest. But I still get the feeling he doesn’t believe me. Or maybe doesn’t believe in himself?_

“Hotch, you don’t need to be ‘fixed.’ Fixing is something I’d do to a watch that’s broken and needs new parts or it won’t run. If you want to follow that analogy, you’re a watch that just needs its timing adjusted. A little reset and you’ll be running fine. In fact, you’re running fine now. In fact, you never _stopped_ running fine. What you need is an adjustment.” He waited for Aaron to examine every word. It was something Ken had come to expect. He wasn’t sure if it sprang from distrust or a naturally analytical nature, but he respected it.

“An adjustment sounds minor, Dr. Morrison. And quick. This doesn’t feel minor.”

“How _does_ it feel?”

“Major. And like no one knows how to help me. Not really. Not like you can look it up in a text book and find other people who’ve gone through whatever it is and come out fine.”

“I’m not discounting the gravity of your situation, Hotch. It’s happening to you, so to you it’s all-consuming, but I don’t consider it trivial. Still, my perspective comes from dealing with a whole cadre of patients who might never lead fulfilling lives. You will. I’m sure of it. And the only textbook thing about you is PTSD, which we’ve already discussed. Although, God knows, there’s a lot of discussion and dissension among the ranks of those of us treating it.”

Hotch raised a brow, inviting more. Ken appraised him through narrowed eyes and decided there’d be no harm in admitting that psychiatry was a discipline open to debate.

“The one thing I think most of us can agree on is that anniversaries can trigger episodes of increased intensity when it comes to PTSD.”

Aaron gave the doctor a sad look. “So my birthday had something to do with this…dream?”

“Very likely. Where those of us in the field differ is in how to treat it. There are some who think talking about fears, dreams, traumas, will free the brain of them. Opening up literally sets the images free…lets them escape. Maybe a little at a time, but the effect is cumulative. We hope so, anyway.” Morrison pulled himself a little straighter in his seat, trying to look optimistic. “And there are numerous cases where that kind of talking-cure seems to have worked.”

Hotch could almost feel the word ‘BUT’ looming large.

“But…” Ken sighed. “…sometimes I wonder if enticing a patient to dredge up memories isn’t just reinforcing them; in effect deepening the groove where the brain stores them. And lately I’ve been wondering if the brain is less mysterious than it seems.”

The doctor had drifted off into his own thoughts. After a moment of contemplative silence, Hotch nudged him out of it. “I don’t get it. Wha’d’you mean?”

Morrison pulled himself back. Sometimes he didn’t dare put his ideas that fell on the fringes of accepted theory forth to his colleagues. Doing so could elicit endless debate. It could be informative, even fun, but right now he appreciated having an intelligent, albeit uninformed, interested party. Talking to Hotch was like having a test audience, allowing Ken to clarify his thesis before laying it before the rest of his peers for inspection.

He also detected genuine curiosity in the boy. He suspected Aaron would have found the field of psychology absorbing whether or not it pertained to his personal situation. So he had no qualms about continuing the discussion, even if it was purely theoretical.

“Most of us regard the brain as an organ whose complexity renders it unpredictable. We say it’s a structure that runs on chemical and electrical energy, which sounds so quantifiable, we should be able to map its causes and effects. Yet we can’t. It’s beyond us. But sometimes I think we’re making it too difficult. Maybe it’s not that unfathomable.”

Warming to his subject, Morrison leaned forward. “There’s a treatment for chronic pain that involves stressing the nerve endings that are causing the problem. In effect you burn them out. They get pushed past some physical limit and can’t register their stress anymore. What if the talking-cure for psychological pain operates on the same principle? What if we’re making the patient suffer by reliving the trauma until his brain’s pushed past some physical point to where it doesn’t register the stress anymore?”

Taking a deep breath, the doctor shook his head. “What if the brain responds no more and no less than a slipped disc, or a toothache? Kind of strips the mystery out of a lot of it, don’t you think?”

Ken came out of his professional soliloquy to see the young man watching him with such grave, somber eyes. “I’m sorry, Hotch. I get wound up sometimes when it comes to stuff like this.” He gave the boy a wry grin. “Professional hazard, I guess.”

“ ‘S okay.” In truth, Aaron was off on his own mental exploration set in motion by the doctor’s lecture. In Hotch’s interpretation of it all, there were two equal and opposite possibilities.

He could talk about the fears and horrors coiled inside him like a serpent and it would either go the route of reinforcement, strengthening them and guaranteeing he’d never be free. Or their recall would become so unbearably painful his mind would be forced to take evasive action by destroying part of itself.

Eyes glazing, Hotch swallowed.

One sounded like Hell.

The other…insanity.


	19. Suitable Attire

Morrison wasn’t sure how their discussion concerning the vagaries of PTSD and its theoretical treatments affected Hotch. But there _had_ been an impact. Of that he was certain.

The boy went about his days with a thoughtful, almost abstracted air. Once or twice, when his tutor had tried to jog him out of it, Hotch had even snapped a sharp retort, asking to be left alone. On the one hand, it was encouraging. Ken couldn’t think of many reactions more typically teen than small flares of temper and the desire to push adults away.

On the other hand, it could be a sign that Hotch’s delicate balance was tipping into unhealthy, troubled territory. The doctor wondered if some of the adolescent’s difficulty was because of the institutional environment. Try as they had to make the boy’s stay more respite than treatment, the bottom line was that the Center had a hospital atmosphere and the only other teens Aaron might encounter on the grounds were by definition, disturbed.

It wasn’t an entirely appropriate setting for someone like Hotch. So Ken was glad when Thanksgiving approached, knowing that Brenda planned on taking the boy home to let him sample a normal family’s interactions.

He was also a little worried about how the boy might react.

_What if he sees people who are secure in the knowledge of their mutual love and respect, and it only serves to emphasize the lack of those things in his own life? Such a display could either inspire, or depress._

The doctor gave his head a sharp shake, breaking through his own obsessive introspection. Hotch was a survivor who’d already proven himself smart, with a remarkable capacity to rebound from circumstances that would have broken a child with lesser natural resources.

Morrison felt the pull of almost-tears in the back of his throat. _It doesn’t speak well of the world that I can see that in the kid._ He took a deep breath. _And I’m getting too close to him. I like him too much. Makes me want to relieve the boy of his burdens instead of teaching him how to handle them himself._

His lips pressed into a grim line. _I guess it’s a good idea after all to send Hotch home after the holidays. Damn…I’ll miss him._

 

xxxxxxx

 

Brenda stood before Hotch, watching him try to cover a reaction that might be taken as ungrateful.

She’d extended the invitation to spend Thanksgiving at her home. With her family. With her husband and sons…at least, the ones who would make it home this year. As the words had left her mouth, filled with cordial intent, she’d watched the boy’s face metamorphose. She thought she understood.

She was asking him to venture into unfamiliar territory. He’d already been uprooted once this year, but he was used to the Center by now. Here she was, proposing he be transplanted yet again. Even if it was only for a long weekend.

Hotch’s dark eyes signaled his distress. “I…uh…that is…I don’t…I’m not…” He faded to silence, begging for this kind woman’s sympathetic nature to rescue him.

“You don’t what?...You’re not what?...” The nurse was giving him a gentle prod. She longed to reassure this gangly youngster, but she also wanted him to look deeper into his own discomfort. Self-knowledge was a valuable asset. The more of it Hotch had before they sent him home, the better.

“I’m not…not good with family stuff, Mrs. Franklin.” Perspiration had broken out on his upper lip. He cleared his throat, a nervous, stalling tactic. “I really appreciate the invitation, but…but…”

“But what, dear?”

“But I’d ruin it for everyone. It’s b-better if I’m not around.” Hotch had dropped his gaze to the ground, reluctant to see the effect of his rejection, but determined not to be swayed from his conviction that he didn’t fit in. And never would. Dread building in his stomach, he waited for Brenda’s hurt or anger to fall on him.

Instead, her hug crushed the breath out of him.

Words filled with fierce emotion accompanied the embrace.

“You listen to me, young man. I’ve been in this world a lot longer than you have. I may look like some sweet, old grandmother who doesn’t know up from down, but I know more about people and pain and survival than you could possibly imagine. I know damage when I see it…and I know treasure when I find it.” She cinched her arms tighter, eliciting a small whimper from Hotch and making him think, old grandmother or not, Mrs. Franklin had some power to her.

  “When you’re older and you’ve had a chance to brush up against all kinds of different people, you’ll understand, Aaron. You’ll know after the briefest contact whether you’ve found someone twisted and broken, or someone fine and beautiful. Inside. The outside won’t fool you. I don’t expect you to understand yet. So you’re just going to have to trust me when I say you are the treasure sort. We will enjoy and appreciate your presence in our home. You’re fine and beautiful on the inside.” Brenda pressed breathless Hotch back so she could look at him. “And…lucky boy…on the outside, too.”

Gratified and a little comforted, but still anxious, Aaron resigned himself to spending Thanksgiving at the Franklin’s.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Everyone’s looking forward to meeting you.”

It was Thursday morning, Thanksgiving Day. Brenda had explained about Hotch to her family and was confident of his welcome. She’d tried to persuade the shy teen to come over the night before, but had relented at the first signs of panic.

_Baby steps_ , she reminded herself. _An overnight stay in a stranger’s home is too overwhelming at the moment. Let’s just aim for a pleasant day with lots of food and people being nice to each other. He needs to watch that dynamic so he’ll know what family is supposed to be._ She grinned, recalling the tense meals and surly interactions of raising her boys through their teen years. _Well…what family’s supposed to be **most** of the time anyway._

Hotch felt awkward and eminently dislikable.

Even if he hadn’t experienced them himself, he knew there were certain social conventions that paved the way for cordial communication. Like bestowing a gift of some sort upon your host. He’d asked Brenda what he could bring and she’d waved him off.

“Just your sweet self, dear.”

It was nice, but Hotch knew he’d feel substandard appearing on the doorstep empty-handed. So he bought a bouquet of flowers. Nothing too ostentatious. A token, really. Yet, even though it was received with apparent delight, the teen still felt lacking. He didn’t know why.

_Maybe that’s the way someone like me is destined to feel._ The thought depressed him, making him wonder what other unpleasant revelations were lying in wait.

Brenda spent the day preparing a feast. The house smelled delicious. Her husband worked for a roadside emergency service. They could almost always bet that he’d be called out on holidays. And, sure enough, he was off sorting out flat tires and dead batteries. Still, he’d promised his wife he’d be there for dinner even if he had to call in faked car trouble of his own.

Consequently, Brenda left most of the responsibility for entertaining their guest to her sons.

Forewarned, the men were sensitive to the teen’s past, steering away from subjects like parents or childhood nostalgia. When it was almost time to eat, the eldest son, thirty-nine year old Mike, gave Hotch a gentle elbow in the ribs, nudging him toward the stairs leading to the bedrooms.

“Mom likes us to dress for holiday dinners. C’mon, String Bean, I got something for ya.”

Baffled and embarrassed that he’d shown up in jeans and a sweater, Hotch focused on the teasing nickname. It gave him a new appreciation of Sean’s protests concerning ‘Bean Sprout.’ Mind distracted by perceived shortcomings, Hotch followed Mike up to what had been his room before he’d moved out on his own.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“One of the things Mom asked me to do this visit was to get rid of these…”

Throwing open a closet door, Mike gestured to a row of suits. Each one with an attendant dress shirt and a tie. He gave Hotch a sheepish grin. “We were sure I was done growing. I was out of college and I’d landed my first real job at an investment firm. Went out and got myself outfitted with all the businessman bells and whistles. And a couple months later, nothing fit. Had to do it all over again. They’ve been sitting here ever since. Mom wants them gone. And you…” He cast an appraising eye up and down Aaron’s angular body. “…you just might fit these. Here…” Mike snagged a navy blue wool suit out of the lineup. “Give it a try.”

Dazed at this unexpected turn of events, and accompanied by Mike’s congenial chatter concerning adventures in the world of financial planning, Hotch undressed. He folded his own clothes neatly away and then slipped on the navy slacks, followed by the pale blue shirt. A perfect fit.

Mike pulled him in front of the room’s lone full-length mirror and gave him an appreciative pat on the back. “Not bad, String Bean. Not bad at all.” He pulled the matching tie out and handed it to Hotch.

“I could have kept these, but I’m kind of a tie-freak. Told Mom I couldn’t break up the set as an excuse to buy new ones. Go on. It’ll be the finishing touch.”

Hotch stared at the richly embossed length of fabric. He hung it around his neck, tucking it beneath the shirt’s collar…and stopped, staring at his reflection. With a bashful duck of his head, he turned to Mike. “I don’t know how…”

“Oh. No problem. I’m the best tie-teacher in the state, if I do say so myself.”

After a few demonstrations and practice runs, Hotch’s long fingers revealed a natural dexterity that made Brenda’s son proud. With the addition of the jacket, the final effect was definitely praiseworthy.

As Mike rummaged in his suitcase and got himself dressed, Aaron gazed at his reflection. More accurately, he gazed at the reflected image of his tie. Perfect. It was precisely perfect.

It was nice to know there was something that _could_ be perfect in this world.

And even nicer to have control over it.


	20. Thanksgiving Interruptus

Suited and tied, Mike and Hotch descended the stairs in tandem.

Brenda glanced up. “Well, what a handsome pair of men.” She’d taken a break from chopping and mincing and kneading and dicing. With no warning as the two moved closer, she brought a hand up to her eyes in an effort to stem sudden tears. “Oh!...Oh, my goodness.”

Hotch hesitated, concerned and baffled about what he might have done to cause such distress. Mike’s hand on his elbow, encouraged him to keep moving forward. He leaned in to whisper, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Don’t mind Mom. She gets all sentimental around the holidays. From now to New Year’s we have to keep an eye on her to make sure she doesn’t get dehydrated.” He raised his voice. “Okay, everyone…The holiday season has officially started: Mom’s blubbering.”

A round of spotty applause amid comments of ‘About time,’ and ‘Here! Here!’ gave further endorsement to the sniffling woman.

“Oh, stop!” Brenda slapped at her eldest son, showing him a somewhat watery smile. Having staunched herself, she moved on to Hotch.

Standing before him, she ran her hands along his shoulders and down his arms, stopping at mid-bicep. “Just look at you.” Aaron wasn’t sure what to do. He let himself be held and watched for clues as to what might come next. Turned out to be a few more tears.

Brenda bit her lip, as she surveyed her guest. “Mike, doesn’t he look just the way you did? All young and smart and ready to take on the world…” A rebel tear escaped, sliding down her cheek to mix with a smudge of flour; a remnant of pumpkin pie preparation. “It takes me back to when my first, little chick left the nest. Looks so much like you, Mike…”

“Yeah, Mike. From the neck down. But he’s got you beat from the neck up…Then again, who doesn’t?” Daniel, next in line of the Franklin’s sons, voiced his opinion from his place in front of the television. Cheering attendant on the football game he was glued to made it sound as though a great many were in agreement with this assessment of big brother’s attractiveness.

“Can it, Dogface.” Mike’s cheerful retort elicited a few growling barks before Son #2 resumed watching the game. “C’mon, String Bean. Let’s go see who’s winning.” He extracted Hotch from his mother’s grasp, herding him toward the living room where the contingent of offspring who’d made it home for Thanksgiving were engrossed in touchdowns and replays.

Hotch was a little dazed by the ease with which these people communicated. The casual insults and teasing were thinly veiled affection. Things like that didn’t happen in the Hotchner household. Still, he did know some things about convivial relations and courtesies. Turning away from the direction in which Mike wanted him to go, Aaron saw Brenda still watching him with a distant, dreamy look.

He took a step back toward her. “Can I help with anything, Mrs. Franklin? In the kitchen? Cleaning up or something?”

The woman gave a start, returning from bygone days when her children had been as lanky and young as this boy. _But they were never as unsure…as tentative. No matter how much we help him, he missed out on so much in his formative years. He’ll always feel the lack of what others take for granted. Like a set of tinker toys with a handful of the pegs missing._

Unable to interpret the sadness in his hostess’ eyes, Hotch blinked, reviewing his words to see if he’d said something unintentionally offensive.

Brenda stepped forward. Laying a hand along one of the boy’s cheeks, she sighed. “No. Thank you, you sweet thing. You go on and enjoy yourself with the others.” She smoothed his eyebrows, returning to pat his cheek one more time. “It’s just been so long since we had a youngster in the house. It brings back some wonderful memories. Now…off with you.”

Turning on her heel, Brenda marched back to where spices and seasonings awaited her expertise.

Hotch took the place on the couch that had been saved for him, but his mind wasn’t on football. He was wondering what it would have been like to grow up where people dared to make noise and celebrate.

And where mothers were free to dispense open displays of affection without getting hit if they were caught.

 

xxxxxxx

 

A few hours later, Brenda decided not to hold dinner any longer pending her husband’s return.

Everything was ready. All the men were properly attired and casting lean-and-hungry looks toward the kitchen, from where tantalizing aromas wafted. Brenda herself had traded her apron in for an autumn-hued, silk dress. A conservative string of pearls completed her ensemble. She checked her watch and came to a decision.

“Your father will just have to catch up to the rest of us when he gets here,” she announced. It was the cue for her famished brood to invade the dining room.

Once again, Hotch asked if he could help with serving the meal. Once again his offer was declined. “Mom likes to do this part herself,” one of the sons confided. “Kind of like an artist unveiling their work to the public.”

The analogy wasn’t far off. As each dish was brought in and placed on the dining table, appreciative hoots and applause were showered on their creator. To Hotch, they actually _did_ look like works of art. If his own mother had ever paid so much attention to presentation, he didn’t remember it. In truth, Hotch had rarely managed to do more than grab what he could and scuttle away, diving for cover in case Daddy was in the mood for a little pre-meal entertainment that involved fists.

After Hotchner, Sr. had left, Aaron’s mother had floated about, cocooned in her own fantasies which hadn’t included producing anything elaborate in the way of food. Mrs. Franklin, on the other hand, had honed her culinary skills over the course of decades. Garnishes along with artfully applied glazes and sauces made each dish glow with delicious promise.

“Her ya go. Beans for Bean Pole.” One of the middle sons plied Hotch with a side dish of green beans and mushrooms topped with caramelized onions, chuckling at what he considered his clever play on words.

“Lay off him, Jake.” Mike spoke up as the oldest male present. “You were skinny once, too. And it’s ‘String Bean,’ not ‘Bean Pole.’” He muttered the correction.

“His name is Aaron,” Brenda glowered at one and all. “Enough of this bean nonsense.”

Hotch thought he would definitely have to rethink his choice of nicknames for his own little brother.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Halfway through the meal, and after a heartfelt grace had been said…another dinnertime tradition that was new to Hotch…Mr. Franklin found his way home.

He entered the house quietly, divesting himself of coat and boots in a vestibule intended as a mudroom near the back door. Before going upstairs to wash and dress, he thought he’d stop in and greet his family and the guest his wife had invited from the Center where she worked.

She’d told him of the boy’s abusive background and shy nature, but the conversations he could hear from the direction of the dining room, interspersed with laughter, sounded encouraging. In his stockinged feet, Mr. Franklin padded his way toward the happy noise.

From the hall, he could see the newcomer seated right before him, back to the doorway. Those whose line of vision he entered, looked up with beaming grins, albeit full mouths. Before anyone could say anything that would have alerted Hotch to the man’s presence, Mr. Franklin stepped through the door.

Standing behind Aaron’s chair, the man was wreathed with joyful smiles for one and all. He let his large, heavy hands drop onto Hotch’s shoulders as he spoke. “Welcome to our home, son. I hope…”

It was as far as he got.

It was the same move Aaron’s father used to employ when he’d catch his son trying to keep body and soul together with whatever scraps of nourishment he could sneak in the hostile home of his upbringing.

Hotch was electrified. He bolted out from under Mr. Franklin’s hands, spinning away from the table and launching himself toward the door.

“HEY!” Brenda’s husband was a large man with arms that, outstretched, could rival a condor’s wingspan. He caught the boy before he could escape. Pulling him against a chest made muscular by the physical demands of his job, Franklin held Hotch close. He concentrated on making sure he didn’t harm the frail-feeling body as the teen struggled, his small whimpers of fear the only accompanying sounds.

“H-e-e-y…” Franklin repeated in a much more soothing tone. “Calm down, son. It’s alright. Calm down. Shhhhh….Shh…Shh…Shhhhh…”

The family still seated around the table exchanged glances both stunned and puzzled. Eventually, all eyes tracked to Brenda, who’d brought this baffling creature into their midst. The lady of the house rose from her chair, distributing warning looks to her sons that told them they officially had no opinion on what had just happened. She went to her husband and placed a comforting hand on Hotch’s back.

“It’s alright, Aaron. Dr. Morrison talked to you about this. It’s the PTSD…remember?”

Assorted murmured comments circled among the sons. A sympathetic quiet settled over them.

Hotch trembled in Mr. Franklin’s embrace, his breath coming in ragged gasps, but slowing nonetheless. After a few more minutes, he pushed against the man’s chest. “I’m okay…I’m okay…I’m okay…”

Franklin loosened his hold, gentle hands sliding around from Hotch’s back to a firm grip on the boy’s shoulders. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” Aaron’s voice was soft with shame. He refused eye contact, keeping his own trained on the floor. “I’m sorry. I…I told you, Mrs. Franklin. I’m not good at family stuff.”

“And I know who’s to blame for that, dear.” Brenda gave her husband a pleading look. She didn’t want this holiday to reinforce Hotch’s negative opinion of himself. She was worried he’d insist on returning to his lonely room at the Center without even finishing dinner. “Why don’t we all sit down again? No need to change…” She whispered the last to Franklin, wanting him to join the diners immediately despite his casual work clothes.

“Sounds good,” Brenda’s husband tried for jovial, although it was a little forced after this odd interlude. “And smells delicious!” He nudged Hotch back toward his chair. “Good to meet you, son. I’m glad you could join us.”

Still looking down, as well as looking troubled, Aaron let himself be pushed down into his seat. Clearly, his mind was elsewhere. And elsewhere wasn’t a nice place. When Franklin had taken his position at the head of the table, there was a lull. The family was wondering where things would go after such an outburst.

Hotch came to a decision. This might not be the right time or place, but these kind people deserved to know what they were dealing with. What they’d welcomed into their home. Taking a deep, still-shaky breath, he looked up at the ring of curious, but compassionate eyes trying not to stare at him too obviously.

Then, for the first and only time in normal conversation, Hotch said… “My father used to hit me.”

More looks were exchanged. Mr. Franklin took the lead. He began filling his plate. As though it were the most ordinary topic possible for discussion, he nodded. “I’m sorry, Aaron. If you’re willing to talk, we’re willing to listen.”

But Hotch found he didn’t have anything else to say.

That was it. Plain and simple. The root of everything that plagued him distilled down to six unremarkable words.

“Thanks, Mr. Franklin. But I’m done.”

The meal resumed. Eventually, it even felt normal.


	21. Passages

“How’d he do?”

Morrison had stayed late the first day back after Thanksgiving. He’d gone in search of Brenda as she began her night shift, hoping for a status report on Hotch’s behavior as a guest in her home. He’d tried to seek the boy himself out that morning, but had a feeling Aaron was avoiding him. It didn’t bode well.

“He was just fine up to the moment my Gary lumbered in and introduced himself by sneaking up on him from behind.” The nurse shook her head in retrospective sympathy. “He meant to welcome Aaron to our home and our table, but…oh, Lord…you should have seen that child’s terror.” Eyes filling with unexpected tears even days later, she sighed. “He has a long way to go, Ken. Not fair what happens to some of these children.”

Ken’s shoulders slumped. He needed to know more. “How did Hotch handle it?”

Brenda straightened, bolstered by the more hopeful memory. “Not bad. He managed to stay on. Took his seat again and explained about his father, then…”

“What?!” The doctor interrupted, grabbing onto something he considered of major significance. “He talked about his father?”

“Only a sentence. Said that he used to get hit. Broke my heart the _way_ he said it, too. So matter of fact. No emotion. It was like someone stating name, rank and serial number. Like a label that says ‘this is who I am…and always will be.’” She inhaled a shuddering breath. “He stayed for the rest of the evening. I was hoping we could get him to sleep over, but…no.”

“Well, I suppose he needed to get back to his home base and feel safe after that. But, Bren, that’s a huge step for him to own his past like that, in front of everyone. It’s like the first step in getting a handle on substance abuse, where the recovering addict has to stand up and claim his damage as he introduces himself to the group. You know…like an AA meeting. It’s a good sign. A _very_ good sign.”

“I know.” The nurse who’d seen her share of addicts, agreed. “But it hurt to see someone that young have to dig that deep for that much courage…just to have dinner with a family.”

Brenda might have said more about the injustices of the world, but Ken’s grin stopped her.

Going into detail about the scant amount Aaron had eaten after his admission, or how he’d seemed to be waiting for censure to drop on him like a net he’d never escape, would only diminish the doctor’s delight in the bright spot he’d found.

And the one thing Brenda tried never to do was tarnish the gift of hope.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Morrison gave Hotch a week.

A week of skulking about. A week of elusiveness. A week of being spotted from afar. But he knew the boy’s routine. And he noticed there was something else that had made a timely appearance and would afford him the opportunity to have a bonding moment with the teen.

A week after Thanksgiving, the doctor showed up first thing in the morning at Hotch’s door, carrying a small, leather case and a bag from the local drug store. He gave the closed door a brisk rap.

“Hotch? It’s Dr. Morrison. Can I have a minute?”

Soft footsteps padded to the door. It was opened by a slightly disheveled Aaron. “Morning, Dr. Morrison.” The teen had a wary look about him, as though he’d done something wrong, but had no idea what.

“Good morning. Mind if I come in?”

Hotch stepped back, allowing the older man to enter even as he cast curious looks at the items he had brought.

Ken set the case and bag down on the desk. Turning, he gave Aaron an encouraging smile. “Haven’t talked to you for a while. How’re you doing?”

Hotch studied his feet. “Mrs. Franklin told you about…stuff?”

“Mrs. Franklin told me you were a pleasure to have around and that she’d wished you’d stayed longer.”

The boy’s swallow was audible. “I kind of lost it. In front of everyone.”

“That’s PTSD for you. It’ll pop up from time to time. Luckily, this time it was among people who understood.” Morrison’s voice was grave. “Mrs. Franklin also told me what you said afterwards about your father. I’m proud of you, son.”

“I scared everyone and ruined their holiday.”

“Far from it. They were hoping to get to know you better, but they understood why you left. Hotch…” Ken pulled out the desk chair and sat, motioning for Aaron to do the same on the edge of the bed. “People are more perceptive than you think. We all sense things about others. We have antennae that go up when we meet strangers who might become friends…or adversaries. The older you get, the more refined those senses become.”

Hotch nodded. “Mrs. Franklin said something like that. Something about knowing right away if someone is twisted, or treasure, I think she said.”

“It’s true. You need to know and _accept_ that you’re perceived as a wonderful person right from the start. Someone that others would like to keep in their circle. When the PTSD flares up, which it will on occasion…it doesn’t negate any of the other qualities people find attractive.” The doctor shrugged. “It’s something they can incorporate into their picture of you without having it detract from you. It’s not who you are. It’s what was done to you. No one’s going to discount the experience of knowing you because of that blip on the otherwise clear radar.”

Hotch nodded, studying the toe of one sock as he digested the doctor’s words. After a few beats of silence, Ken continued.

“The reason I’m proud of you is that when you came out of it, you behaved admirably. You stayed to finish eating, which means that you won the battle against that particular bout. You acknowledged what happened just enough to be politic and polite. And you didn’t use what happened as a crutch to garner sympathy. You didn’t let it take over. That makes me proud, Hotch.” Taking a breath, Morrison sat back. “What do you think?”

More silence. The doctor let it pass. Clearly, the boy was processing something. Ken appreciated that Aaron wasn’t one to give glib, off-the-cuff answers. If you asked him something, he’d respond to the depth and breadth of his ability to be honest and thoughtful. After a few minutes, Hotch met the older man’s eyes.

“I think PTSD stole whole chunks of my life. I think I’m never gonna be on the same level as other people. I think I’m a time bomb and I’m ticking down to another freak-out, and next time it could end a lot worse.” The boy broke away, looking down and pulling in on himself in a way that made the doctor’s heart crack. “I’m trying to believe you, Dr. Morrison. I really am. But I’m scared. And I hated scaring other people.”

Rising, Ken moved to take a seat on the mattress beside Hotch. He put an arm around the boy’s shoulders and pulled him close, tucking the dark, tousled head beneath his chin. For a moment he stayed quiet, letting the teen become used to being comforted. When he spoke, he did so in a soft rumble.

“There are no guarantees, son. But I believe you’re one of the ones who’ll beat this thing. It takes time. Be patient and kind and forgiving with yourself. And believe that every time you feel that inner panic, it’ll be less and less. And one day you’ll feel it and recognize it and, knowing what it is, you’ll turn away from it before it gets a chance to surface. It _will_ happen. I’ve seen a lot of PTSD and I’m confident that you’ll beat it. Probably sooner than you think. It won’t rule your life.”

Hotch pulled away from the embrace. He studied Morrison’s eyes for a moment, but sounded dubious. “I wish I could believe that.”

Ken couldn’t help that his lips began to twitch with the beginnings of a smile. “You can. Trust me, son. It’s inevitable. As inevitable as…” Reaching across to the desktop, he snagged the bag he’d brought. “…a guy having to shave in the morning. You’re lookin’ a little on the scruffy side. I think it’s time.”

Hotch sat straighter, interest making him perk up a little. “Yeah?” This was a male rite of passage he’d wondered about for a while.

“Yep.” The doctor dropped the bag in Aaron’s lap. Picking up the leather case, he rubbed a palm across his own jaw. “I figured I’d shave here this morning. Got you what you’ll need to follow along. You game?”

Hotch’s smile said he was.

“Okay, then.” Morrison headed toward the bathroom, the adolescent in tow. “First time’s gonna be a little rough. There’ll be a few nicks; a little blood. But I’m betting you can handle it.”

Aaron didn’t say that he was sure he could.

He was used to the sight of blood on his own face.


	22. Christmas Plans

The ritual of shaving forced Hotch to confront himself in the mirror.

It forced him to acknowledge the physical changes the last several months had wrought. It also made him look into his own eyes and consider the mental and emotional changes that were less obvious, but of more import. When other creatures were taking cover in their burrows against the cold winter weather, Aaron was beginning to come out of his shell.

But not too far.

The snow and sleet of December curtailed his outdoor runs. He took his exercise in the shelter of the gym and occasionally the wide-open spaces of the early morning mall. The seeds that had been planted when he’d first noticed the amount of female attention he received when running, sent forth timid shoots. Hotch’s confidence in his appearance increased. Not to the point of vanity. Rather, to a place where he didn’t feel the need to hide. The external hallmarks of his childhood were fading.

He accepted that although his inner damage wasn’t visible, it still cast a pall over his self-esteem. But he began to believe in the power of pretense. As long as people didn’t get too close, he thought he might be able to make them think he was just like them. Undamaged…normal…real…

Hotch began to hope that he might be able to build a life of his own. Maybe even excel at something, if he worked hard enough. As long as he kept his distance socially.

But then…there was that one increasingly alluring area of life he couldn’t imagine going through alone.

Hotch ran. Girls watched and waved. Hotch basked, and began to look forward to returning to his school. He was bigger and stronger, and, if he could trust the frank looks of admiration from female spectators, not too shabby in the appearance department. At odd moments, he’d imagine running into Haley Brooks. He’d fantasize that this time, she’d notice him. Maybe he could even win a smile. But if his imaginings became too real, his breathing would get thrown off mid-stride, and he’d realize other things were happening to his body, and he’d desperately try to focus on something less tantalizing.

Like the monsters of the mind. Abnormal psychology.

Hotch was still immersing himself in textbooks dealing with mental processes and anomalies. But what had begun as a quest to understand the nuts and bolts of his family and himself, had become less specific. Hotch was fascinated in the science for its own sake.

_And maybe it’ll help to know this stuff if I become a lawyer._ That was still his goal. Not out of desire. Rather, for lack of any other field that would make his father proud. That incentive hovered on the edges of his consciousness, almost subliminal, but still directing his choices.

Hotch learned the value of pretense to protect himself, but also to conceal the influence his father still had over him. _If they knew how messed up I’ve been, they’d never understand why I think I should study law._ Truthfully, the boy couldn’t explain it to himself. Not completely. He just knew it was something he had to do.

So Hotch ran.

And when he shaved, sometimes he’d avoid his own eyes.

 

xxxxxxx

 

As December passed and Christmas neared, Hotch hoped Mrs. Franklin wouldn’t invite him to spend another holiday with her family.

He liked all the Franklins he’d met, but as much as he envied them their affection and sense of kinship, he didn’t feel at home. _But, hell…I don’t feel I belong in my **own** home either. So what does that say about me?_

The only place he _did_ feel a sense of calm that reached all the way to his troubled, adolescent core, was the silent, wooded glade where he and Dr. Morrison had gone the day Hotch had earned his driver’s license.

He’d borrowed the doctor’s car a few times to revisit it. Trying to bring some of the serenity back with him, he’d collected a number of pinecones. They sat on his windowsill, doing double duty. They were reminders of inner peace…and talismans against the sound of Hotchner, Sr.’s car in the parking lot.

Aaron didn’t hear it so much anymore. He knew it was attributable to his inner mental and emotional healing. But a deep-seated superstition made him leave the pinecones where they could stand guard, fending off imaginary demons.

Just in case.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Hey, Hotch! got a minute?”

Aaron turned to see Ken approaching. The doctor had a wide grin, but there was something that made the boy think he was a little sad, and a little tentative, too. “Sure, Dr. Morrison. What is it?”

“I wanted to ask you if you’d like to spend Christmas with me.” Hotch’s brows rose. “If you don’t want to, that’s okay. I know Mrs. Franklin would like to have you to herself, but…” There _was_ sadness in the doctor’s eyes. Hotch was sure of it. “…but you’ll be going home in a few weeks and I thought it would be nice to spend some time together…you know…away from _here_.” Ken’s chin lifted, a gesture that included the entire Center.

Hotch blinked. This was unexpected. He realized he didn’t know much about this man who’d become his mentor, other than that he wasn’t married. For a split second, the boy hesitated, wondering if this would be another celebration with parents and siblings and extended family thrown into the overwhelming mix. Strangers all, who meant well, and deserved better than to be frightened out of their wits by a guest too damaged to function properly in a family setting.

“I…uh…I…”

“It’s okay, Hotch. It’ll just be you and me. No strangers. No surprises, except…” The grin returned. “… I thought we’d go skiing. Cross-country, downhill…whatever you want.” Ken looked so hopeful. And he’d seemed to understand the reason behind the boy’s reluctance without needing explanation. Aaron was ashamed his first inclination was to refuse. Still…

“I don’t know how to ski, Dr. Morrison.”

“That’s okay. I didn’t expect you to. I thought I’d teach you. _If_ you want. You don’t have to. We can do whatever you want.”

Hotch felt he was being studied; maybe judged through the lens of the doctor’s professional experience. He liked Morrison. It didn’t feel right to be less than brutally honest. “What if I freak out again? What if this time it’s worse? I don’t want to cause any trouble or…or embarrass you…” Aaron hung his head, keeping his focus on his own feet. “…or myself.” The last was said so very, very softly.

Ken found that often the excuses given the least emphasis were the ones that loomed the largest.

He stepped closer, lifting the boy’s chin until their eyes connected…and realizing Hotch’s eyes were the tiniest fraction of an inch above his now. _Good God. Brenda was right. He’s starting to grow again. We’ll have to make sure he has clothes that fit before we send him home. No telling if his mother is capable of taking her son shopping. And no knowing if Aaron will feel comfortable doing things like that on his own. Not for a while, anyway._

“Someone once said that what’s mind-bogglingly, mortifyingly embarrassing to you…is mildly amusing to onlookers. You’ll go home and relive the incident over and over, and cringe at it, and give it pride of place in your life, when those who bore witness to your humiliation likely forgot all about it within minutes.” The doctor grinned. “They were probably too involved in reliving their own cringe-worthy moments to pay more than cursory attention to yours. I bet if you ask any of the Franklins how Thanksgiving was this year, your bout of PTSD would be a footnote, if they mentioned it at all.”

Hotch looked skeptical. “I dunno. Mrs. Franklin told you about it, didn’t she? She didn’t forget about it.”

“Because she’s a nurse, son. And because she knows I care about what happens to you. And…because I asked. I dug for every detail. But the first words out of her mouth when I asked how the day went, were about how sweet she thought you were. And how she thinks it’s time for her eldest, Mike, to settle down and have a son of his own. He liked you _that_ much. Kept talking about you the entire vacation, after you’d gone.”

Morrison saw a change, like the warm glow of embers deep in Hotch’s dark eyes. He thought he knew why. _That was evidence that he’s fine son material after all. He still has doubts. I bet he’s collecting bits and pieces like that to refute his father. Maybe I should tell him…_

“You won’t embarrass me, Hotch. Whether you embarrass yourself really is up to you. Takes practice, but things _will_ get better.” Ken took a deep breath. “The thing is, you’ll be leaving us early in the new year. And I’ll miss you. You kind of make me want a son, too.”

The embers in Hotch’s eyes fanned warmer, extending into a slow, but very genuine smile.

Aaron went skiing.


	23. Christmas and Beyond

The gear was unexpectedly intricate.

Getting oneself outfitted to venture forth onto a snowy slope was a much more involved process than Hotch had imagined. It was a lucky thing that the pro shop boasted a staff experienced in equipping first-timers.

Morrison had chosen to stay at Devil’s Head Resort. It was his Christmas gift to himself, really. With indoor facilities that included a pool, sauna and hot tub, he thought it would cater nicely to end-of-day muscles in need of soothing. And even though Hotch ran almost daily, and had the benefit of youth on his side, Ken was sure he’d find his first time on top of a pair of skis a workout, bringing all sorts of body parts into unaccustomed play.

But before setting out to the lift, there were skis, boots, poles, clothing, and gloves to sort out.

The girls in the pro shop tossed a coin to see who would win the right to dress the tall, dark young man who gave them a sheepish smile, saying he needed all the help he could get. Hotch didn’t see it, but the doctor did. He took immense joy in stepping back and letting an almost-age-appropriate female fuss over Aaron, stealing occasional touches under the guise of checking for fit.

When the young lady had finished, she ran an appreciative palm over Hotch’s chest, letting it linger before dropping to give a brief squeeze to his trim waistline. Morrison turned away, hiding his amusement at Aaron’s wide-eyed, questioning look. Glancing back, he saw a slow grin slide into place on Hotch’s lips. His eyes tilted up at the corners. He looked like a fox. Seeing it, the girl gave a deep sigh. She seemed mesmerized, which made Hotch’s grin spread even wider. Jolted out of her sweetly carnal reverie, she stepped back, complexion going several shades redder. Fox had attained wolfhood.

Ken chuckled to himself. _And **that** , my young friend is an example of how one person’s embarrassment can be another’s treasured memory._ He had no doubt Hotch would find things quite different in the way the opposite sex viewed him when he returned to Bluefields.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch chose downhill rather than cross-country.

Ken knew he would. There was a physical freedom in the speed and sheer concentration needed when rocketing down a mountainside that he’d known would appeal to the boy. There were also a great many more opportunities to do oneself damage. Mindful of Hotch’s amateur status, the doctor insisted he stick to the bunny slope sanctioned for beginners the first time out.

Aaron attacked skiing.

With single-minded ferocity, he focused every ounce of natural abilities, both mental and physical, on mastering this new activity. He was indefatigable until he attained his goal.

Panting and bruised, but face shining with triumph, Hotch ended the day with a run down an intermediary hill, sluicing to a perfect stop at the bottom as a satisfying fantail of powder flew up from the sides of his skis.

“Kid’s good.” The resort instructor confided in Ken. “Natural athlete, but even more important…hell of a winning attitude. He was not gonna let anything stop him.”

The doctor glowed with pride. “That’s my boy.”

He was beginning to wish it were true.

 

xxxxxxx

 

As hard as Hotch worked to become proficient enough to earn a run down a slope earmarked for experienced skiers, what hit him the hardest, stayed with him the longest, had nothing to do with mastering a sport.

When Morrison finally allowed him to tackle one of the more advanced runs Aaron was relentless in doing it over and over until he made it to the bottom without falling. It was impressive progress for a novice. Begging for ‘just one more,’ the two men found themselves on the nearly deserted mountainside as daylight faded. Most of the resort’s other patrons had retired to warm baths and fireside cups of cocoa and hot buttered rum.

Standing together at the top of the run, Ken watched as Hotch paused to survey the landscape. It reminded him of the day he’d taken the boy to a wooded glade. The tension ran out of Aaron’s shoulders and chest. His facial muscles relaxed. With slow deliberation, his eyes scanned their surroundings. Morrison stayed quiet, letting his companion immerse himself in the wintery solitude.

Nearly half an hour passed. Ken was becoming concerned about traversing the slopes in the diminishing light. Lifting his skis in an awkward side-step, he moved closer. Remembering the boy’s reaction at the Franklin house when Brenda’s husband’s large hands had surprised him, the doctor placed one gloved hand on Hotch’s shoulder, keeping the touch light.

“Son?” Aaron startled back from wherever he’d been, but no more intensely than anyone would have. “Son, it’s getting dark. Time to get off the mountain and call it a day.”

“Yeah…yeah…Sorry.” But still the boy hesitated, head turning, casting about their immediate surroundings. “Just one minute, okay?”

As Morrison watched, Hotch made his way into the leading edge of a copse of evergreens, boughs tipped with snow that made them look like sugar-iced Christmas cookies. Moving about beneath the low-hanging limbs, the doctor couldn’t make out what the boy was doing.

 _Bathroom break?_ He wondered. _Writing his name in the snow?_ But it was plain Hotch was searching for something on the ground. Ken saw him pick an object up, dusting powdery flakes off of whatever it was.

“Come on, son. We really need to get moving. Don’t want to get caught out here after sundown.”

Hotch hurried forward, still brushing at his find.

Morrison watched the boy zip a small, perfect pinecone into the safety of a jacket pocket. He smiled, but didn’t give it much thought. He still collected mementoes and souvenirs of trips, although his were mostly of the seashell variety.

He had no idea the little cone would join its brethren on Hotch’s windowsill, supplementing a cadre of sentinels against the fears of his receding childhood.

But it would also serve as a reminder of the peaceful places of the world.

And of his best Christmas in memory.

 

xxxxxxx

 

The week between Christmas and New Year’s flew by.

Ken and Brenda joined forces to make sure Hotch’s repatriation into Bluefields would be as trauma-free as they could manage. There were more shopping trips to accommodate what seemed to be ever-lengthening limbs. Sturdier than when he’d arrived, the boy was still on the thin side. Washboard ribs made the nurse bite her lip and consider coaxing Aaron to eat more and richer foods. But Morrison recalled the fragile, little bird he’d admitted to the premises months ago and had to admit the specimen standing before him now was greatly improved.

Ken handled contacting Hotch’s old high school and making sure he was registered after his long absence. When he was questioned about the reason for the boy’s departure in the first place, the doctor dodged having to give an answer.

He hadn’t considered the small-town curiosity into which Aaron would be thrown. Aware of the stigma attached to the term ‘institutionalized,’ Ken thought it best to touch bases with Mrs. Hotchner before discussing with her son how, or even if, the matter should be handled. The truth was, the boy _hadn’t_ been admitted as a patient. But people had a way of jumping to the most salacious conclusions. The last thing Morrison wanted was to feed a rumor mill.

He waited for a time when Aaron was closeted with his tutor, closed the door to his office, and dialed the Hotchner household.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Hello, Mrs. Hotchner?”

“Y-e-s?”

Only one word and the doctor detected something distant and fuzzy in the woman’s voice.

“It’s Dr. Morrison. Ken Morrison from the Behavioral Center. I wonder if you have a moment to talk about your son, Aaron?”

“Oh…of course. Certainly.” She sounded faint and wispy.

“Ma’am, is this a bad time? I could call back…”

“No…no…” Hotch’s mother inhaled as though surfacing from some deep place. “How is my sweet baby? Does he need anything?”

“Aaron’s doing well. Matter of fact, I think he’s ready to come home. How do you feel about that?”

“Why, that’s just fine. Fine…. How is he? Does he need anything?”

The doctor’s stomach dropped at the repetition. Something was decidedly wrong here. It made him wonder how advisable it was to send Hotch back. But where else would the boy go? There was no way he or Brenda would be allowed to keep him. The Chief Administrator’s chide about making a pet of Aaron echoed in the back of Morrison’s mind. He was also wondering about the welfare of the littlest Hotchner, Sean.

As if on cue, there was a rustling as the receiver changed hands. A very young, yet officious voice took over. “Hello? Is there anyone there?”

Ken blinked. “This is Dr. Morrison at the Behavioral Center….Is this…Sean?”

“Yessir.”

“Uh…son, is your mother alright? Are you?”

“Mom gets funny sometimes. But she’s okay.” The youngster hurried on to what he considered more important matters. “Do you know my brother Aaron?”

“Yes, very well….You sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah!” Said was a touch of impatience which morphed into longing with the next statement. “I miss Aaron.”

“That’s what I was talking to your mother about. Aaron’s ready to come home.”

“When?”

“Well, that’s what I wanted to discuss with your mother.”

“ _When_?!”

Ken hesitated, but saw no reason to withhold information. “Next week…uh… _if_ that works for you and your mother?”

“I’ll tell her. She’ll be back by then.” Before the doctor had a chance to either process or pursue such an odd statement, Sean rushed to a close. “Tell Aaron I love him! Bye!”

The line went dead.

Morrison stared at the receiver buzzing in his hand, and decided to have a talk with Hotch before making any more plans about returning him to Bluefields…and the advisability of leaving his little brother there.


	24. Homeward

“There’s nothing wrong with my mother!”

It was a fierce declaration. Almost a challenge. It made Morrison back off.

“Alright. Okay. I just thought she sounded a little, uh…confused. And your little brother said something about how she’d be back? I didn’t understand.”

“It’s nothing. She’s okay.” Realizing how abrupt he must sound, Hotch looked the doctor in the eye, making a conscious effort to soften his tone. “I’m sorry, Dr. Morrison. I don’t mean to be rude, but…just leave it alone, okay?”

“Sure…sure... But if you need anything…to talk or anything…you call me. Understand?”

“I do.” Hotch took a deep breath, relieved that what little was left of his family wouldn’t be questioned and judged and found wanting. It was more than he could handle on the brink of going home. “Thanks. For everything. I mean it.” He turned back to packing for the trip back to Bluefields. He was leaving with much more than he’d brought.

And he knew that included things far more important than clothing and books.

Ken watched the boy’s economical movements and meticulous packing job, and felt an odd combination of triumph and sadness. _I’ll miss him. And I’ll worry about him. But he’s come a long way and he deserves the chance to put everything he’s learned to use. And he needs to test himself to see exactly how much healing he still has to do. But…I’ll miss him._

Hotch could sense the doctor observing him. He himself was feeling so much it was interfering with his ability to think clearly. He was grateful for the simple act of packing. It was soothing; almost therapeutic. _I’ll miss him. I’m scared to go back. I’m scared to leave here. I wanna hide. But I’m too big for that. And Sean needs me. Mom, too. I don’t know if I’m good enough to help anyone, though…I’m scared. And I’ll miss him so much. Mrs. Franklin, too._

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch’s flight back to Virginia was scheduled to take off midmorning.

Brenda made a point of staying well past her usual end-of-shift so she could say her goodbyes. Sweeping the boy who’d shot up a grand total of nine inches during his stay into a fierce hug, the nurse crushed him to her.

“You take care of yourself, Aaron. But always remember, we’re not that far away. If you need someplace, well,…safe and homey…you come back and stay with me and Mr. Franklin. You’re legal age now. No one can stop you from going where you want.” She transferred her grip to the lean, freshly-shaved face, holding Hotch at an angle so she could make eye contact despite his greater height.

“And don’t you let anyone stop you from _being_ what you want either.” Brenda might have said more, but her voice choked and her eyes filled. She settled for another bruising embrace.

The woman really was surprisingly strong.

Hotch was overwhelmed now that the actual moment of departure was at hand. He’d planned to say all sorts of things about how much he appreciated all they’d done for him and how there was no way to adequately thank them. But in the end, all he could do was hug Brenda back.

In truth, he was terrified. The powerful feelings surging through him made him feel unsteady. The white fog that had receded and had made only spotty, sporadic appearances for weeks now, felt closer when he was emotionally off balance. As the nurse released him, Hotch could feel a bank of the mistiness waiting to envelop him.

He gritted his teeth and fought it off.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“You sure you’ve got everything, son?” Ken surveyed the four new suitcases that had been necessary to accommodate the boy’s possessions. Mostly clothes, toiletries, books, and a small collection of pinecones that Hotch had packed with care, wrapping them in socks and t-shirts. Except for one. The one that he’d collected while skiing was tucked into a pocket to accompany him on the flight.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Well, if you’ve forgotten anything, all you have to do is call. I’ll send it to you.” _He’s scared. He’s holding himself together, but this might be the safest place he’s ever lived and we’re sending him away. I’ll miss him._

“I’m gonna miss you, Dr. Morrison.”

Hearing his own thoughts echoed, the doctor stepped in. If Hotch thought Brenda’s hugs had been powerful, he was nearly squeezed in half by Ken’s. His ribs would be sore the next day.

For Aaron’s sake, the doctor tried for a cavalier, easy attitude. Stepping back with a wide grin, he pulled his keys from his pocket and tossed them toward the boy. “Here ya go, hot shot. You drive.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

The hustle and bustle of the airport along with the need to check in and make sure Hotch’s luggage went to the right place was a comforting buffer. Being busy and having things to distract him made it easier for Aaron to keep the emotional overload from reaching critical mass.

But at the gate…the point beyond which only ticketed passengers could go…he ran out of evasive maneuvers. He stared at Morrison, dark eyes tragic and filled with fear.

Ken recognized the signs of incipient panic. He gripped the boy’s shoulders, aiming his words and hoping they’d penetrate to a place where they might linger.

“Son, you’re not the same person who came here. In fact, I bet people back home will have a hard time recognizing you. But the changes aren’t just physical. You are stronger, surer, smarter and braver than most men twice your age.”

The doctor peered into the eyes that could glare like lasers, but currently looked like a lost puppy’s. He gave Hotch’s shoulders a gentle shake. “You are going to do incredible things with your life. Important things. But even though you have all that ahead of you, I want you to know right here…right now…as you are…I am _so_ proud of you.”

Ken saw the change in the dark depths of the boy’s eyes.

Hotch felt the change take root in his heart.

Those were the words he’d always wanted to hear from his father. And if this man who finally said them to him… _about_ him…wasn’t related by blood, the sentiment was still like rain on thirsty ground.

It would bring forth all manner of blooms.

 

xxxxxxx

 

On flight 370, nonstop from Wisconsin to Virginia, Harold Coatney kept a curious watch on the young man in the seat beside him.

The boy was movie star handsome; a fact that middle-aged, pudgy Harold found off-putting at first. But there was something lost and wistful and gentle in the fellow’s demeanor.

And when he pulled a perfect, little pinecone out of his pocket, slumped down in his seat and stared at it until a sweet, beatific smile touched his lips, Harold forgave the kid his good looks.

There was just something about the boy. Harold couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

_But whoever raised him did a nice job. Kind of kid I wouldn’t mind one of my daughters bringing home someday._


	25. The Homecoming

Hotch didn’t really expect anyone to meet him at the airport.

In a way, he was glad to have the time alone. He went about claiming his luggage at a leisurely pace. He didn’t remember the flight out to Wisconsin some months ago. It disturbed him that his memory was prey to all the traumas and hurts of his previous life in Bluefields. But he reminded himself he was a different person. Not a victim. _Damaged, yeah. But not a loser. Not a victim. Gotta keep telling myself that._

His sense of being different now was bolstered by the very adult business of renting a car. Hotch stood tall at the rental counter and handed over his driver’s license as though he’d gone through this process dozens of times. He was careful to choose a company that had an outlet in Bluefields. He didn’t want any problems returning the vehicle. But he had an idea it would help him acclimate to being back if he could drive around his hometown on his own before seeing his family or meeting any of the other locals.

In no hurry, the drive from the airport just outside Roanoke to Bluefields took approximately two hours. Hotch set his Christmas pinecone on the dashboard. Whenever he felt panic bubbling up inside at the prospect of picking up the strings of his old life, he’d look at it. _You can always go back there. You can always leave and find a peaceful place in the world if it gets too hard._

That conviction accompanied him over the city limits and into the heart of his hometown, and his past.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Bluefields, of course, hadn’t changed.

Hotch was surprised at first. Until he reconciled the feeling, realizing that since he himself had undergone a significant transformation, he’d rather expected the entire world to have done the same. Smiling at such an ego-centric way of looking at things, he coasted about the town, driving past the high school, the elementary school, of which he had only spotty memories, and the residential streets along which stately homes hid all manner of drama.

Which brought him to the mansion where his mother and Sean would be waiting.

Maybe. He hoped so anyway.

He pulled into the long driveway, parking beside his mother’s Lexus. No sooner had he cut the engine than the front door flew open, discharging a bundle of energy that shouted “Aaron! Aaron!”

Hotch slid out from behind the steering wheel and was nearly knocked off his feet by the blur of welcome that resolved into his baby brother, Sean.

“Hey, Bean Sprout! How’s it goin’? Where’s M…” The words died on Hotch’s lips at the troubled expression on the little boy’s face. “Sprout? What is it? What’s wrong?”

The child scowled upward. “You got _big_ , Aaron!”

A lopsided grin of relief washed over Hotch’s face. _Maybe that’s why everything looks smaller to me. Weird._ He ruffled Sean’s hair; an expression of affection that the boy disliked almost as much as being called ‘Sprout.’ Not for any particular reason. Just because it underlined big brother’s superiority in the arenas of height and age. They loved each other, but sibling rivalry had its place in the Hotchner household.

“Don’t worry, Sprout. You’ll get bigger…someday…maybe….”

“Yeah…well…” Sean’s face brightened as he switched gears. Grabbing Hotch’s hand, he pulled his brother toward the gaping front door. “Come inside! We have a cook now! Mom hired a cook! And she’s supposed to make a really big dinner for you!”

Heart pulsing with warmth at the proof that his mother had anticipated his return, Hotch let himself be hustled into the high-ceilinged front reception hall. A lady-like squeal of joy made him look up at the gracious expanse of staircase that wound its way up in a splendid tribute to aristocratic architecture. Halfway down the steps was another tribute…one to Southern feminine delicacy. Hotch’s mother was fluttering her way toward them, trailing swathes of pale chiffon in her wake. One hand on the banister, she beamed a smile at the return of her prodigal son…only to freeze mid-step when the young man looked up at her.

Color drained from Mrs. Hotchner’s complexion. The diaphanous fabric floating behind that gave the impression of angel’s wings drifted to a stop, hanging limp. The knuckles of her hand on the railing tightened to white. Her other hand lifted to cover her mouth. Her eyes widened with a look that was anything but welcoming.

“M-Mom?” Hotch’s smile faltered. “Mom, what’s wrong?”

The only one who seemed oblivious to the emotional currents swirling through the foyer was Sean. With happy insistence, he pulled on Hotch’s wrist, dragging him toward the stairs. “Aaron’s home! Aaron’s home! Look Mom! He got _big_!”

At the foot of the stairs, eyes still locked on his mother’s, Hotch saw the metamorphosis. Like ice breaking in a springtime thaw, the woman’s frozen expression broke apart. Shaking, she plopped down on the steps, breath coming in short, sharp bursts.

“M-Mom?” Aaron’s childish heart still needed his mommy. Still needed to know he was loved with whatever passed for love in this disjointed family. He couldn’t breathe until he knew whether or not he was still welcome here.

“Oh…Oh, Aaron.” His mother’s face collapsed into tears. “Oh…for a minute I thought…for a minute you looked like… Oh, Aaron.” Mrs. Hotchner mastered herself. Close up, she realized the resemblance was only superficial. She closed the distance between her and her firstborn, yet her hug still had something tentative about it. But when she pushed Hotch backwards, holding him…the better to see him in his entirety, her smile shone through. “Oh, my baby. My sweet, sweet baby. Welcome home, son.”

“We have a cook now!” Sean crowed. He beamed his joy at the rest of his family…all both of them. “When do you think dinner’ll be ready, Mom?”

No one answered him. Hotch’s appetite was doing a rapid retreat.

Both he and his mother knew who had looked out at her for a moment from her son’s maturing face.

And both of them had felt wisps of white fog curling about, threatening to claim them.

 

xxxxxxx

 

By bedtime Hotch was feeling better.

His mother had stared into his eyes throughout dinner as though to assure herself of who really looked back. By the end of dessert, she was all lilting laughter and warm smiles, going on and on about how lucky Aaron was to have been granted a spot at the ‘academy in Wisconsin.’

Loathe to contradict or question; grateful for a more light-hearted atmosphere, Hotch supported her illusion. After a while, it was easy to go along with it.

Really, the greatest shock for the boy was the difference in physical perspective brought about by having shot up nine inches. He spent the evening wandering the passageways and corridors with Sean in worshipful attendance. The youngest Hotchner didn’t really remember his father. His comfortingly tall brother was a pleasant stand-in.

Aaron toured the mansion, with mixed feelings. He liked finding things in reach that hadn’t been before. But it was oddly disturbing to realize he no longer fit into many of the places that had offered refuge from his rampaging father. Even at seventeen, he’d been a slight wraith-like creature.

A creature meant for fog.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Sometime during the night, while Bluefields slept, Hotch felt a small, importunate hand stroking his hair. For a moment his heart stuttered in terror. But only for a moment. _Thanks, Dad. That’s your immortality. That’s how you live on in me._

Hotch opened his eyes to the darkness and the barely discernible face of his little brother. “Sean? You okay?”

“Yeah. Couldn’t sleep.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t do that again, Aaron.”

“What?”

“Go away without telling me.”

Hotch’s stomach sank. He hadn’t really thought about the method of his departure, because he didn’t really remember it. “I’m sorry, Sprout.”

“Love you, Aaron.”

“Me, too….Hey…” Hotch sat up in bed, taking a closer look at his brother now that his eyes were acclimating to the dark. “You wanna stay here with me tonight?”

“Can I?” The sound of incredulous joy made Hotch’s heart twist.

“Sure. C’mon. Get in.”

Sean scrambled between the sheets before Aaron could have a chance to change his mind. This was a rare treat…and the surest indicator of how much his big brother had changed in his time away.

Curled up, Hotchner nose pointed toward Hotchner nose, the brothers stared at each other until their lids grew heavy. Sean drifted off first.

Feeling a faint smile trace his lips, Hotch blinked in the darkness and wondered what it would have been like to fall asleep so fearlessly when he was that age.


	26. Back to School

Hotch had a scant few days to reacquaint himself with his home and family.

Then, it was time for the spring semester of high school to start.

Sleepless and scared, he was dreading his return to the halls where Randy Crenshaw, bully extraordinaire, ruled. And where lovely Haley Brooks had no idea he was alive. And where he was generally, for all intents and purposes…a ghost. To make matters worse, some internal switch had flipped in his mother. She was, to use Sean’s term… ‘gone.’

Mrs. Hotchner wafted about the mansion with a small, cut crystal glass that caught the light in rainbow shards, and smelled sickly sweet. When Hotch had the opportunity to sniff its contents, he recoiled. The more his mother sipped of what Cook told him was ‘sweet sherry,’ the more expansive and fanciful she became.

“Don’t worry, Aaron. She’ll come back in a while.” Sean’s beaming smile didn’t reassure big brother.

What _did_ make a difference was shaving.

Such an unaccustomed, adult activity jogged Hotch back from the brink of ghost-hood. He saw the reflection of an almost-man looking back at him, and was reminded that he was a different person from the one who’d been shunted off in a severely damaged state. He didn’t think he was whole yet. He could still feel the internal bruises, but Dr. Morrison and Mrs. Franklin had given him the gift of a longer view.

And college was just around the corner. A whole, new life. The tutor at the Behavioral Center… _The Academy!_ , Hotch reminded himself…had made sure his charge kept pace with the entry process. Once the boy had evinced an interest in pre-law, the tutor had gone to work. When Aaron had taken his SATs and cleared a few other preliminary hurdles, the tutor’s eyes had widened.

The boy was Ivy League material.

Hotch wasn’t sure what it all meant. He wasn’t used to believing he had a future. But the approving looks and congratulatory affection had helped him re-paint the portrait of himself that he held inside, that no one else saw, in brighter colors.

 

xxxxxxx

 

On his first day back, Hotch felt like an imposter. Or an infiltrator.

He walked with a stiff spine and the attitude of one who expected a blow from behind at any moment. Traversing the halls of his high school, he waited for…something. He wasn’t sure what.

He found it when he went to the administrative offices to pick up his class schedule for the semester. The bored-looking woman behind the counter grunted as she extricated herself from behind her desk when the office door opened and a young, male voice requested attention with a polite “Excuse me?”

Trundling over, the woman gave a deep sigh. She looked up at this juvenile intruder who was interrupting her morning coffee and…froze.

He was shockingly handsome. He towered over her; at least six feet tall, probably more. And the unsettling thing was, she could tell he wasn’t fully developed yet. There was more in store. As impressive as this creature was, it was still a cub…not yet full grown.

The look on the woman’s face. The unexpected civility and courtesy she accorded him, ushered Aaron into the next stage of his life.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Perceptive and bright, Hotch began to understand that he _was_ different. Some of those differences were blessings. Gifts…but potential curses, sure…It all depended on how he used them.

He was also a victim of his age. His stage of development. Hotch wanted girls. Desperately. And he wanted one. Especially.

He was smarter about the laws of attraction than he’d been when he’d first seen Haley romping her way through the Drama Club. Roaming the halls, he found the casting call for The Pirates of Penzance posted on a bulletin board papered with all sorts of opportunities for extracurricular involvement. It brought back memories of the last time he’d humiliated himself in an effort to draw closer to the girl of his dreams. He also recalled his determination while he was at the Center… _The Academy!_... to audition again. But this time Aaron would do it with conviction; standing tall, speaking out, putting everything he had on the line in hopes of being cast in any part whatsoever. It would mean rehearsal time; hours and hours in the vicinity of Haley Brooks.

Hotch’s eyes blurred with desire.

And resolve.

He did his best.

His heart was in his throat the entire time. And it was beating for Haley the entire time, too.

And…he got cast. A lowly pirate. One of many. But a part. A part that let him be in the splendid, luminous presence of the girl who ruled his heart, his fate, his life. He just knew…she was the one.

Their fates were conjoined.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Haley heard about the new boy who wasn’t really new.

Changing for gym class into the requisite white shorts and shirt, she listened to the tide of gossip ebb and flow around the tall, dark stranger that no one could recall being in class before, but who seemed to know his way around the school and Bluefields as well. Curious, Miss Brooks kept an eye peeled for the male phenomenon of the day.

When the name ‘Aaron Hotchner’ was whispered in disbelieving tones, she had a vague recollection of a slight, ragged creature darting about in everyone’s peripheral vision. But this was a different animal altogether. One that deserved a second look.

Maybe even a third one, too.

When the spring theatre production, Pirates of Penzance, was announced and the cast list posted, Aaron’s name appeared toward the very bottom. Haley chewed on her lip and decided to keep the boy under surreptitious surveillance.

After the first rehearsal…a read-through…she understood her friends’ and frenemies’ attraction.

Haley displayed her charms with giggles, preening, and glances, but she couldn’t tell if Aaron noticed. The production process continued and Miss Brooks became a bit disgruntled. After the dress rehearsal, she wondered if the coy signals she’d been sending were too subtle.

But then, one day after the play had closed, the gloriously beautiful beast approached her. A glint in his eye. A rose nestled between his kissable lips. As Haley watched, the faint beginnings of a smile stretched those lips, causing them to come into unfortunate contact with a thorn.

Aaron gasped. The rose meant for Haley fell. A tiny bead of blood appeared.

And Haley moved in to claim a much better prize than a flower.

A beautiful prize that she knew had all the potential in the world to be the trophy husband of a lifetime. She was sure she could mold him until he was juuuuust right.

And the rest…

…was history.


	27. Part 2: Ghosts and Demons

“Ow!” Hotch looked up with a disgruntled glare.

Rossi had cuffed him. Sneaking up from behind. A wily maneuver unworthy of someone working for a Bureau whose creed was Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity. Hotch rubbed the back of his head. “What was that for?”

“Just wanted to see if you were still with us.”

The Unit Chief scowled and bent closer to the paperwork littering his desk. He didn’t want to admit it, but he _had_ been woolgathering quite a bit lately. “OW!!”

Rossi had struck again. Devious. Shrewd. Not to be borne.

“Stop it!”

“No.”

“Go away. That’s an order.”

“No.”

“ _OW_!!” Hotch was glad it was after hours. There was no one to hear this altercation that he strongly suspected Rossi was winning. “Wha’d’you want!?”

“To know what’s in there.” Dave tilted his head to one side, looking as though he were calculating a new angle of attack. One that might knock loose whatever was inside Hotch’s skull that warranted this overabundance of attention. “I want to know why you’ve started drifting away from us. And I’m not the only one. I thought everything was all worked out. Now it feels like you’re backsliding, Aaron.”

It had been nearly a year since Hotch and Jack had suffered through the measles together. Only in Aaron’s case, the suffering had been a lot more than viral. He’d revisited his past. Things his own mind had denied and buried had been exhumed. He had been simultaneously devastated, elated, hurt and healed.

He never wanted to go through it again.

But something was gnawing at him. Had been for weeks. No matter how cathartic the journey, there were still things buried. But only just…

He’d been a fool to think Rossi wouldn’t pick up on it. It was disturbing if others had, too.

Hotch winced in anticipation when his peripheral vision caught Dave’s hand on the move again. This time it descended onto his shoulder, giving an affectionate, yet reprimanding, shake. “If you wanna talk, I’m here. But get a handle on this thing, Aaron. Distraction isn’t something you want to take with you into the field.”

“Thanks, Dave. I appreciate the offer, but I’m okay. Really.”

With a another shake and a shrug, Rossi went back to his own office to pack up and head home.

Hotch had the same idea. He straightened a few files. Sorted out the ones he wanted to tackle first thing in the morning. Thought twice, and shoved a few into his briefcase to take home. He found one file he wanted to leave on Reid’s desk. It needed the young genius’ statistical eye cast over it before it could move any further.

Hotch picked up the file, and headed out to the bullpen, flipping through it one more time as he walked. A body found in the northern wilderness. Snowy pictures. Tall, dark trees. His mind began to wander. His foot took the first step down. But, distracted, he missed the second.

Rossi heard the crash and curses as papers and Unit Chief went flying.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Can I say it?”

“Can I stop you?” Hotch sighed as best he could considering the long bruise spanning his back and impacting his ability to expand his lungs to full capacity. “Go ahead.”

“Told you so.”

“I wasn’t in the field, Dave.”

“Imagine if you _had_ been. You were dis-trac-ted, Aaron.” Rossi shook his head. “Look at you. Banned from action for three days. Maybe more.”

Hotch’s head hung in sheepish dismay. “I can still work from the office.”

Rossi stood, scanning the younger man’s length where he lay supine. After a visit to the ER and the official, medical verdict, he’d been allowed to bring Hotch home. Jessica had been alerted that Jack’s Dad might not be up to the physical demands of fatherhood for a day or two. She’d swept the boy up with smiles and alluring promises about treats and trips to the zoo.

So now Hotch had been installed on his living room couch, everything necessary at hand. Rossi had helped him change into sweats and had ascertained that he could navigate where he needed to go, although movement was painful and slow.

“You sure you don’t want company for the night? Just to be sure you can get around?”

“No. Thanks. I’m fine. And I’m sorry I took up your entire evening.”

“ ‘S okay.” Rossi tapped a gentle finger against Hotch’s jaw. “Call me if you need anything.”

“Thanks.”

“And, Aaron…do yourself a favor. Lay your demons before they get any bigger. Okay?”

Hotch nodded.

He watched his best friend leave, locking the door behind him. Listened to Rossi’s BMW pull away from the curb. Leaned his head back, and saw again the images of the evening that had coalesced, pointing the way to where he needed to go.

The wintery, northern photos from the file.

The white coats and medical personnel of the ER.

Hotch closed his eyes and could almost see…

…but white fog kept interfering with the view…

 

xxxxxxx

 

The next morning, feeling truant despite orders to remain home, Hotch gimped to his desk and riffled through his address book.

He had a section in the back that he’d labeled ‘Past.’ He’d created it after Morgan had taken him to visit Bluefields one last time. Actually, to Bluefields and beyond…Had taken him there to lay his ghosts.

And now Rossi had said to lay his demons.

Heart pounding at the prospect of opening a door he’d never intended to touch again, Hotch extracted a business card he’d been given in Tazewell. Hand shaking, he entered the numbers.

“Hello? Dr. Swinburn? It’s Aaron Hotchner. Remember you said I could call if I ever had any questions…?...Or just wanted to talk…?”

 

xxxxxxx

 

The flight to Wisconsin was uneventful, unless you took internal journeying into account.

For Hotch, it was fraught with emotion and plagued by fog. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to win his way free of the soft, familiar, white tendrils. But he’d come this far. So…

He’d written down the directions he’d been given and folded the paper into a small, dense square. He kept it in his pocket like a talisman, his fingers straying to it every few minutes to reassure himself of the reality of what he was doing.

_It’s been nearly thirty years. What do you expect to find, Hotchner?_ The answer echoed out from the white fog. _Yourself. The last vestiges of yourself. The last pieces to make the puzzle…whole._

He deplaned, go-bag in hand, without expecting any kind of welcoming committee. The airport didn’t stir any memories. Hotch made his way to one of the car rental counters. Standing in line, the last thing he’d expected was for two hands to descend on his shoulders. So gently. Almost as if they were leery of eliciting a reaction.

Nonetheless, FBI training made Hotch tense and spin to confront a possible assailant.

The man was older, but not elderly by any means. He was unfamiliar until a wide grin shot across his face like a comet.

“Aaron? Aaron Hotchner? You have to be. I’d know those eyes anywhere.” He grabbed Hotch’s stunned, stationary hand and pumped it in greeting.

“It’s Michael. Mike Franklin. Brenda Franklin’s son. Remember?”

Hotch remembered.

Hotch remembered so much it hurt.


	28. Lost and Found

“M-Mike? Franklin?”

Hotch stood in numb surprise as his hand was shaken and released. Then his shoulders were grasped and he was steered out of line, allowing others to move ahead with the business of renting cars.

Once he had Hotch where his stunned statue impression didn’t interfere with foot traffic, Mike held him at arm’s length, appraising the boy he’d once called ‘String Bean.’

“Well.” He looked Aaron up and down and up again. “Well, well, well, well, well.”

To which the FBI Unit Chief responded, “I…uh…I…I…”

It was a near perfect conversation.

 

xxxxxxx

 

It turned out Mike was booked on a flight to Denver.

“Helping one of my girls move,” he confided, dropping shock after stun on Hotch.

“Girls. You have children?”

“Ohhhh, yeah.” Brenda’s son flashed a wicked grin. “Mom was always wishing for a daughter. Someone up there must’ve heard…” He tipped his chin heavenward in reference. “… ‘cause I gave her five granddaughters.”

“Wow.” Hotch tried to recover his ability to contribute to normal social situations with intelligent dialogue. “How is your Mom? I’d like to see her while I’m here.”

Mike’s smile faltered. “She would’ve loved that.” He took a deep breath. “Mom passed on about five years ago.”

Hotch couldn’t help it. His eyes filled with tears in tribute to a woman who’d never have the chance to see what her kindness and generosity had wrought when it came to one lonely, lost teenager.

“Awwww…String Bean…” Mike proved himself his mother’s son, dispensing warmth and comfort by engulfing Aaron in a hug as though decades hadn’t passed since they’d last seen each other. As though the person in his arms was still skinny and vulnerable and hurting.

Mike wasn’t far off.

Hotch _was_ still all those things.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Mike had time to take Aaron to an airport bar and ply him with a drink.

He watched with grave eyes that reminded Hotch of Mrs. Franklin’s. It helped as much as it hurt. But when the FBI agent was calmer, Mike prodded him with gentle questions. “So did you come for the ceremony?”

“Huh?” Hotch could see alcohol wasn’t improving his communication skills.

“The dedication. Old Doc Morrison? Ohhhhh…” Revelation dawned on Mike’s face. “You don’t know. Of course you don’t! How could you?”

Hotch swallowed and stuttered out his worst fear. “Is…Is Dr. Morrison…Is he…”

“Shhhhh…No. No, Aaron. The Doc’s fine. Goin’ strong.” Mike’s joyful grin returned. “They added a wing to the Center…where Mom used to work? And they’re naming it after Ken Morrison. I tell ya, that guy is never going to retire. His motto’s something like ‘As long as there’s a kid I can reach, I won’t stop reaching out.’” It was Mike’s turn to go a little misty. “Doc and Mom, they made one hell of a team.” He reached out and nudged Hotch in the ribs. “But you know that better than most.”

The intercom system crackled to life with the first boarding announcement for flight 622 to Denver. Mike downed his drink and stood up, motioning Aaron to do the same.

“The dedication’s tomorrow at noon. There’ll be speeches and local news coverage. But I don’t think the Doc cares about that kind of stuff. What I _do_ know is that if you show up, he’ll remember the day for the rest of his life. ‘Cause you’re the reason he does what he does.” Mike gave Hotch another hug. Grabbing his carry-on bag, he reached into a pocket, extracting a business card. “I wish I had more time, but I gotta go. Call me, Aaron. I want to hear everything you’ve been through since you left here.”

He looked ‘String Bean’ up and down one more time.

“Nice tie, kid. You always were a quick study.”

Striding toward his gate, Mike turned back. On the edge of being out of earshot, he shouted. “I didn’t even get to ask…what do you do for a living, Aaron?”

It felt wrong to yell it across a busy, populated area, but Hotch did. “Justice Department. I work for the Justice Department.”

Even from a distance he could see Mike’s expression of gratified surprise. “No kidding? String Bean’s an FBI agent? Ohhh, man! Doc is gonna love that!” Turning away and breaking into a jog to make his flight, Mike’s last words carried back to leave Hotch with a grin.

“That explains the tie even better…”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch returned to his original mission of renting a car.

With memories of how he acquired his driver’s license painting a nostalgic background in his mind, his first stop was a small motel where he took a room and dropped off his go-bag. He debated looking up Ken Morrison in local phone listings, but decided against it. He was also conflicted about showing up at a ceremony honoring the doctor’s accomplishments. Despite Mike’s encouraging words, Hotch didn’t want to overshadow the day. Dr. Morrison should be the focus of attention. He should revel in his life’s work; not be forced to narrow it down to one sorry specimen who hadn’t really fit any niche of the institution the good doctor had been committed to building.

_And I still don’t fit. I’m for sure not gonna intrude on his moment._

But Hotch’s time was limited. And now that he was here, his desire to touch bases with the doctor was so strong it verged on painful. Restless and emotional, Hotch reached for the most reliable comfort at hand.

He pulled out his phone.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Aaron? What’s up? Where are you?”

“Wisconsin.”

A beat of silence…an _extended_ beat of silence…fell before Rossi spoke. “Am I to understand, then, that Wisconsin is a state that harbors demons? The kind that need to be laid once and for all?”

“Yeah.”

Dave sighed. He could hear confusion and incipient depression in his friend’s brief responses. Could visualize the scowl trying to mask sorrow and vulnerability. The way to handle Hotch was to go slow and leave plenty of silences in case he wanted to take up the conversational thread himself. Rossi settled into the chair in his den, glad he’d already poured himself a nightcap.

“So…does the demon in Wisconsin have a face? A name?”

Long silence again, but something about it sounded thoughtful rather than evasive. Finally, Hotch’s sigh presaged his words.

“Me. It’s just me.”

“Ahhhhh…” Dave took a sip of a very fine, Italian merlot. “Then it’s an unusually stubborn, but ultimately cooperative demon. It’ll hide, but it won’t lie.”

“Not so sure about that.”

“Alright.” Rossi slowed down. He’d found altering the cadence and pace of speech in a conversation with Hotch made the younger man relax and lower his guard just a little. “What about this demon frightens you, Aaron?”

Extended silence again.

“If I find him, there won’t be any more secrets. No more hiding places I don’t know about. I’ll…I’ll…Dave?” The last faded into an almost-whimper.

“I’m here, Aaron.”

“Why am I scared? I came here to do this; to clear away all the…the fog. Why am I scared now?”

“Because self-knowledge is a very frightening thing. But I will tell you this: you’re going to find a wonderful man. I see him more clearly than he sees himself. So, you better be nice to him, ‘cause he’s my best friend.”

More silence. Rossi sipped wine and let a wry grin appear. _I can argue that boy into almost anything except believing in his own sorry, good self._

“This is hard, Dave.”

“Nothing worth achieving is easy.”

“Yeah.”

One more silence, but Rossi got the feeling there was some genuine weariness in it. Hotch was almost done for the day.

“Aaron, is there something that’ll bring back a purely good memory? Something you can take a break and do right now?”

Only a short pause this time. “Yeah. There is.”

“Go do it. Then take it to sleep with you…the last thing you think about, okay? And call me tomorrow, or sooner if you need to.”

“Okay. Yeah.” There was a breathy combination of anticipation and acceptance in Hotch’s voice. “Dave…thanks. Thanks.”

“Any time. Go take care of my best friend.”

Rossi's chuckle carried over as Aaron hung up.

 

xxxxxxx

 

It was getting dark, but he found it.

Shocking really, that the place hadn’t been overrun by strip malls or apartment complexes. But it was still there. Unchanged for the most part.

Exactly what he needed.

Hotch walked down the old trail, found a place to sit on a fallen tree, and breathed the peace of the place until it filled him to the exclusion of all else.

Before true night fell, he found a pine cone.

And a little of himself that he’d thought forever lost.


	29. The Longest Distance

Hotch parked his rental car a mile away from the Center.

He wanted to walk in. He wanted to travel the same way a sullen, injured teenager had decades ago, beating a path from there to the town library…to the mall…to his future. He gave himself plenty of time to traverse the distance, words of a playwright whose name he’d forgotten echoing through his mind: ‘Time is the longest distance between two points….”

The closer he got, the younger and more unsure of himself he felt.

He’d debated over what to wear. It had amused him on an intellectual level. He, who gave little thought to his wardrobe other than it be clean and flawlessly executed…a standard of his skills in dressing rather than of the garments themselves…he, who used clothing as armor rather than as stylistic statement…He’d stood before the motel room mirror dithering like, well, like a teenager.

On an emotional level, what Hotch wore had much more serious import.

In the end, he chose to stick with his suit.

Yes, it was an impeccable façade that shielded him and helped him in his struggle to be flawless, but on a practical level he thought it gave him more of a choice as to whether or not he’d intrude on the day’s festivities. Dr. Morrison would remember the boy in jeans and t-shirts and baggy sweaters. Hotch counted on his unfamiliar dress to allow him some distance…some anonymity.

 

xxxxxxx

 

As he neared the center, Hotch became more confident of his ability to remain inconspicuous.

He smiled at the bustling activity. A van boasting a satellite dish and the call letters of a local news affiliate drew attention all on its own. Concession stands had been erected, indicating this was already a day-long event, not just a brief ceremony. Balloons sprouted in bunches, tied to beams that formed a small stage in front of what was surely the new wing.

This was a big deal for a small town.

Hotch’s smile faded as his profiler’s eye picked out groups of children and teens, milling about, clearly under the supervision of white-coated adults. Patients of the Center. He could almost taste the emotional currents of discomfort and belligerence swirling around them. And he certainly could remember how it felt to think you were not just a lesser being, but a problematic one abandoned by your family. Sent away.

He swallowed hard and retreated to the fringes of the crowd.

The dedication was about to begin.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Listen up, everyone! Can I have your attention?!”

The official emcee spoke over the whine of feedback as he adjusted the mike set at center stage and dove into his introduction. “We’re gathered here today to pay tribute to a man who has devoted his life to putting the emotional welfare of children on the map…”

Hotch didn’t keep track of the laudatory speech. He knew better than most what Dr. Morrison had done…and continued to do, according to Brenda’s son. Instead, he searched the crowd, hungry for sight of the man of the hour. No likely-looking candidates jumped out at him and a small frisson of worry wormed its way into his stomach.

_What if he’s not here? What if he’s ill or infirm and can’t make it? But Mike said he was ‘going strong.’ But what does that mean? How old is Dr. Morrison anyway?_

Beating himself up for not doing additional research on the Center and its staff before coming, Hotch missed most of the speech. He was jolted back to the here-and-now by applause. It was long and sustained and genuine; not the polite smattering one encounters at most such public events. Eyes darting, Aaron finally saw the object of the crowd’s admiration. And a weight lifted off his chest.

The man was jogging, white coat flapping in the breeze created by speed. Even from a distance, Hotch could hear the shouted apologies as Dr. Morrison ascended the few steps to take his place beside the emcee. “Sorry! Sorry! I got caught up in…well…that’s not important. I’m just sorry I’m late! Sorry! Sorry!”

A little breathless, the doctor smiled at the crowd, stepped up to the mike, and launched into a brief history of the Behavioral Center for Children and Adolescents.

Hotch stayed where he was for the duration, gazing at the unbent figure of a man who was older, but no less energetic or passionate than he had been decades ago. So many moments swam up from Aaron’s memory, he felt overwhelmed. He rubbed his jaw in an absentminded recollection of who had taught him to shave. And so many, many other things, too.

Hotch hovered at the edge of the festivities and drank in the sight of a man he remembered he loved.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Ken was comfortable talking about the Center, its history and hopes for the future. He wasn’t so comfortable being the object of praise and admiration.

He did his duty giving interviews and sound bites for local news stations. He shook every hand that came his way. He thanked one and all for coming, but he dearly wanted to escape the limelight and just enjoy the fact that all these people cared about helping troubled youngsters.

That was the real glory of the day.

Accepting a few more congratulations, the doctor began to scan the crowd, mapping out his escape route. His eye passed over an anomaly: a man in a suit when nearly everyone was dressed as casually as if this were a summer picnic.

Ken’s eye returned to the stationary figure.

Ken’s eye focused.

Something about him…something…

“Excuse me, please…I’m sorry, but I have to…uh…go…sorry…” Morrison disengaged himself from a gaggle of well-wishers with polite, but firm, determination.

The man in the suit was staring at him. Hadn’t stopped. He had to go…He had to know…

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch was so lost in the past and his thoughts and feelings, he didn’t realize what was happening until the celebrity of the day was mere feet away.

There was no place to run, and no reason to. The FBI agent stood his ground as the doctor barreled into him, pulling him into a fiercely tight, crushing hug.

A voice gravelly with emotion breathed into Hotch’s ear.

“If you’re _not_ Aaron Hotchner, I don’t want to know.”

It was one of the few times in his life that Aaron Hotchner was exactly who he wanted to be.


	30. Into the Night

“Well…”

In the relative quiet of his office, Dr. Morrison took a seat opposite Hotch, both men sporting grins so wide they almost made talking difficult. “That was a lot of _sturm und drang:_ storm and stress, signifying nothing.”

“Not nothing.” Hotch leaned back with a satisfied air, crossing his legs. “A tribute to a remarkable career and a remarkable man.” He raised the glass of whiskey the doctor had pressed into his hand. “I salute you, Dr. Morrison.”

“Nonsense.” Ken took his own judicious sip, marveling that someone who lived forever as a boy in his memory was old enough to partake of hard liquor. “The real tribute to anything I might have had a hand in accomplishing is sitting before me.”

Smile and eyes growing sadder, the doctor stared at his guest. “You don’t know how hard it was to let you go. The Chief Administrator at the time must’ve seen it happening…a connection that went deeper than was good for either of us…that went to the depth of family rather than staying closer to the surface where good doctor/patient relationships are supposed to reside.”

Morrison looked away, shaking his head. “You’ll never know…”

“Yeah, I do.” The soft refutation came in the rumbling baritone that was another new feature the doctor needed to assimilate into his evolving portrait from the past. “I was scared to leave here, too. But everything’s been kind of foggy from back then. Do you know, I didn’t really remember being here until just a short time ago? How weird is that?”

“Not as strange as you’d think, Aaron…uh…Hotch.” Ken shook his head at his own lapse about what this man liked to be called. “PTSD can do that. We’ve learned it’s quite common for sufferers to erect a kind of mental wall around difficult times. But…that’s all in the past even if the memories are relatively new to you.”

“Doesn’t feel past.” Hotch’s regard was grave. “What you did for me feels too important to have an end to it. I don’t know where I’d be except for you and…” He ducked his head. “…and Mrs. Franklin.”

“Oh, son. I hate to be the one to tell you…”

“ ‘S okay. I already know she’s gone.” Once again, Hotch couldn’t keep his eyes from filling.

Morrison closed his own for a moment. It was hard to see this man’s honest vulnerability and not hold him like the child he’d once been. _But he’s grown and I have to acknowledge that and accord him the same dignity I’d attach to any other adult. But…God!...he’s so much the same! All those good qualities that were so close to the surface he had to hide them to keep from getting hurt…they’re all still there. Still surface. Still special. Bet he still gets hurt a lot, too._

Ken took a deep, calming breath. “How did you hear about her?”

“I ran into her son, Mike, at the airport.” Hotch’s somewhat watery smile returned. “He told me. Also said he had five daughters. Hard to see him as a father, you know?”

The doctor’s grin grew again. “Well, then you’re in for an even bigger shock. I’m a dad, too.”

“Really?” Hotch’s eyes tilted up in full fox-face. “Me, too.”

Ken’s joyous guffaw rang out as he raised his glass. “To fathers!”

“To…” Aaron’s voice faded. “…fathers…” He was recalling a different kind.

“I’m sorry, son. I didn’t mean to bring up…him…”

“I know.” Hotch looked up, locking eyes with his host. “I’m not like him. I love my son. And I’d like you to meet him someday.”

“I’d like that. I want you to meet mine, too.” Morrison glanced at his watch. “I have to get back and make an appearance, but can I persuade you to come to my home for dinner? My son flew in just to congratulate his old man. You can meet him and my wife, and we can talk late into the night. I want to know everything about you. Will you come?”

“You’re sure I wouldn’t be crashing family time? I mean, if your son made a special trip…”

“Not at all.” Ken stood, downing the rest of his drink and setting the glass on his desk. I see him more often than you’d think. He travels in his line of work.”

“Yeah? What would that be?” Hotch stood, turning his back for a moment to deposit his empty glass beside the doctor’s.

“Junior FBI field agent. I’m so proud of him. Works out of Cleveland.”

Hotch froze for a moment. And then a moment longer. He felt a hand on his shoulder. “Son? You alright?” It took Ken a few seconds to realize the man was chuckling.

“I am. Really.” The Unit Chief straightened, turning to smile at his once-upon-a-time mentor. “I just think we have a lot of things to learn about each other.”

Hotch didn’t quite understand the secretive, sly look to the other man’s grin. “Got that right. Meet back here at five? I’ll take you home with me?”

“I’ll be here.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch was waiting.

Ken took him to a modest two-story house complete with picket fence.

The doctor opened  his front door, ushering the younger man in before him as he called out to alert his family. “I’m home! Honey? Anyone gonna come see what I brought with me?”

In short order, a woman in her late-middle years came around a corner, wreathed in smiles and wiping her hands on a dishtowel. She nodded at Hotch before kissing her husband’s cheek. “Welcome home, o’ famous one with wings named after him.”

Morrison chuckled. “Hey, I didn’t ask for it. They had to name it _something_ , so…”

“Shut up, Dad. You earned it.” A man Hotch judged to be in his early twenties poked his head around a corner. Seeing a stranger with his father, he came closer, giving the Unit Chief’s traditional dark suit, white shirt and red tie curious looks.

Ken beamed with pride as he performed the introductions. “This is the guy I told you about from when the Center was first founded. He was instrumental in keeping me focused during an insanely busy time.” Hotch noticed the man’s smile had that look of secret knowledge again. It puzzled him. But only for a moment.

“This is my wife, Donna. And this…” Morrison put his hands on Hotch’s shoulders, turning him toward the young man who was still eyeing this stranger’s choice of attire. “This is my son.

“Hotch, I’d like you to meet my boy…Aaron.”

The Unit Chief blinked, almost forgetting to extend his hand in greeting. When he did remember, he couldn’t keep his own grin under control. It blossomed even wider when the younger Morrison said, “Pleased to meet you. Nice suit.”

“Thanks. So you’re FBI?”

“That’s right.”

“Me, too.”

Hotch felt smug, affectionate satisfaction at the stunned look on Ken’s face.

In the matter of surprising revelations, Aaron Hotchner figured he and the doctor were even.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Ken and both Aarons knew there would be long hours of conversation that night.

Many questions and answers and stories to tell; all of them rooted in the tale of a traumatized boy who didn’t fit anywhere…

…until he met a man who cared about children, and happened to have a spare room in his heart.

 

 

\-------- the end


End file.
